The Adventure of the Rogue Detective
by stilettov
Summary: Sequel to the Syndicate Scandal. Sherlock and John pursue Irene Adler and her co conspirator to New York City, never imagining the manhunt would turn into their worst nightmare. Sherlock/Irene, John/Molly, Irene/Moriarty  I wrote this story long before the second set of episodes, so this Irene is pre-canon and of my own devising
1. Kiss Me Between The Bars

_Disclaimers:_

_This story contains very dark themes of sexual assault. The stories "Hades" and "Loaded" are companion one-shots, for anyone wishing for a further look into the relationships depicted here. Thanks to my beta, Thessaly, and please enjoy._

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 19

Finally a moment to write, thousands of feet above the Atlantic. The business jet is small, but spacious, and with John, myself and our associate being the only passengers, there's none of the claustrophobic pressure of a hundred other people. John is asleep in the aft compartment, so I have time to commit a few thoughts to my journal.

I will record events as clearly as I remember them, beginning with the hospital.

It started with a dream. I typically remember my dreams, but I cannot recall one so vivid, so real as to almost leave flavour in my mouth, or scent in my nostrils.

_A slender hand on my throat. A smile, a voice purring in my ear. "Let it happen. Let yourself feel it. Most people don't get this opportunity."_

_"What opportunity?" My voice, a little light, a little breathy, under the pressure on my larynx._

_"To appreciate what it feels like to die."_

_The hand tightened. My heart began to race. The adrenaline bubbled through me. Legs coiled around me like some inexorable parasitic vine, and I felt my body giving involuntary shudders, bucking a little, my eyes starting out of their sockets._

_I blacked out. I fell, plummeting through nothingness._

I jerked awake. I was in a hospital bed, strapped down with wide nylon bands. The feeding tube that had been inserted up my nasal passage was still there, choking me as I tried to catch my breath. I was still winded from my subconscious tryst, half-convinced I was not awake yet. But soon, the physical sensations began to filter through, and I regained enough presence of mind to start taking stock.

There was a finger oximetre clipped to the index finger of my left hand. I shifted experimentally, felt the pinch of the IV drip that had been inserted into my left arm. I was extremely sluggish, a combination of fatigue from prolonged unconsciousness and the cocktail of sedatives that had been pumped into my veins.

I tried to move again, tried to jar the IV needle out, but it was taped down. After a few more feeble attempts, I gave up the struggle. There was nothing else for it. I thumbed the oximetre and with some effort, succeeded in prising it off my finger. It fell to the floor with a dull clatter, and the monitor above me began to chirrup incessantly.

A young woman stepped in, a nurse or attendant. Nursing intern. I could see her badge, or the lower half of it that was visible as she leaned closer. I feigned sleep as she bent down and replaced the oximetre on my finger, then opened my eyes and lightly touched her wrist. She jumped. "Oh! You're awake."

As I was strapped down, I could make no gesture of affirmation, but did attempt to raise my head a little. She adjusted the oximetre, and patted my hand. "You stay there. I'll be right back."

She hurried off, then returned about five minutes later, wheeling an instrument cart behind her. I was able to catch a glimpse of entire badge: Beth Larson, Intern RNMH. The Marymoor Hospital, Mental Health and Addictions Ward.

"I'm going to take that out," she said, indicating the nasogastric tube. I nodded to show I understood. She went to the bed controls and raised it up into a half-Fowler position, half-way between upright and recumbent. Snapping on a pair of exam gloves, she unclipped the tube from my scrub shirt, then pinched it firmly between her index and thumb. "Hold your breath. This will only take a few seconds."

I did as instructed and tried to ignore the urge to gag as the plastic tube slid up my throat and finally out my nose. It wasn't exactly a painful sensation, just the deeply unsettling feeling of having a physical object sliding against my insides. To make matters more delightful, nasal discharge was leaking out of the nostril from which the tube had just exited, but Nurse Beth was equal to that. She immediately pressed a wadded tissue to my nose. "Blow," she instructed.

Trying and failing to shake the horrific feeling of having regressed about thirty years, I did as told, but found tremendous relief as I took my first proper breath since regaining consciousness.

"That's better, isn't it," said Beth soothingly, affecting a bedside manner clearly intended to put violently psychotic patients at ease. Perhaps it worked on them, but it did nothing at all for me.

"Yes," I rasped. "Thank you. May I speak to the doctor?"

"I'm afraid he's busy just now." Her expression was genuinely apologetic for all that her answer was automatic. "He'll come and see you when he has time. The head nurse can come speak to you. She's the one who'll be working with you."

"Fine. Good." I heaved a sigh. "Can you unstrap me, at least? I'm not dangerous."

"I'm afraid not." Again, the apology, but a little stiffer this time. "I'm not authorised to do that. If you wait for a bit, I'm sure the head nurse will be able to help you."

Before she turned to leave, I was able to catch her hand. There was an engagement ring on her ring finger, a modern design with a large diamond set flush to the gold band. Beautiful construction. Beth shot me an angry look before pulling her hand back.

"I'm sorry. It's just I like your ring," I said in a meek, childlike voice. "It's very pretty."

She fingered it, annoyance giving way to pleasure as a slightly vacant smile appeared on her face. "Thank you. I like it, too."

"Even though he's cheating on you?" I inquired with the most innocent tone I could muster.

"Excuse me?" she demanded, colour rising in her face like a thermometer, the Florence Nightingale act evaporating on the spot.

"The rock," I said, nodding towards the ring. "It's too perfect by half. Cubic zirconium. Clearly it's been a very long engagement, time enough the gold-plated nickel band to create that green stain on your finger, which says he's loath to commit." I paused, just long enough to soak in her gross indignation, before delivering the coup de grâce. "The entire thing couldn't have cost more than £150. It follows that if he's cheap with the ring, he's cheap with the truth. And you must work long hours, Beth."

Shaking from head to foot with rage, she advanced a few steps, the feeding tube in one gloved hand. "I could put this back in, you know."

"You could," I acknowledged equitably. "But that wouldn't be a very nice thing to do, would it?"

In a trice, she had shoved the tube into a plastic bio-hazard bag, turned on her heel, and left without another word. I smiled to myself, settling into the comforting glow of good friend schadenfreude.

I paid for my little moment of fun by spending a full hour restrained in isolation. It remained to be seen whether the head nurse was punishing me for my assault on one of her flock, or whether Nurse Beth had simply failed to inform her that I was awake. As the big woman came through the door, her expression seemed to imply the former. She, too, had affected a cheery air with her black cherry-patterned scrubs and her false smile. The ID badge clipped to her pocket read "Grace Malloy". She was holding a chart on a clipboard, and had made a point of standing directly over me. It was a move very obviously calculated to intimidate.

"Mr. Holmes, hello. Do you mind if I call you Sherlock?"

"Please do," I said my throat rather dry. "May I call you Grace?"

"You may," she said politely, but there was no attempt to disguise the fact that she had already made up her mind. I wondered if the personal dislike I'd inspired would bleed out into the diagnostic report.

"Can you take these things off me?" I strained against the restraints. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Sherlock. You've already been hostile to one of the staff members." Her face was concerned. "I'm really not sure if I can trust you."

"What does it say there?" I nodded at the chart. "I think I have a right to know."

Grace heaved a sigh, and pulled a stool from the corner of the room, perching on it. "It says that you were admitted here April 12th, after having been transferred from London. You had been successfully stabilised after severe intoxication after ingesting several benzodiazepines mixed with high grade cocaine, and it was recommended that you be detained here until the mental health assessment panel has determined that you have attained the level of rehabilitation and mental fitness required to function in a supported living environment. At that time, you will be released into the care of your brother, Mycroft."

I absorbed this information, surprised by none of it. "I was not given the opportunity to speak on my own behalf, nor any legal representation."

"That right was overruled by your personal physician," Grace said coolly. "And in any case, I don't think anyone's interested in anything you have to say, do you?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I don't have a personal physician."

"It says here you do. Doctor John Watson."

I felt a jolt of shock. "Show me."

She turned the chart so I could see the signature that had been hastily scrawled after John's fashion, with the characteristic smudge at the end of the "n". It was undeniably John's signature.

The forger had made one vital mistake. I had seen this signature before, this exact signature, on the cheque John had drafted to Mrs. Hudson for this month's rent. It had been sitting on his dresser at the time when I had been "borrowing" his double bed. The signature had been reproduced flawlessly, using advanced computer software. Some staff member, possibly Grace herself, had assisted in affixing it to the chart, the content of which was otherwise genuine.

Mycroft. Bastard.

"I would like to speak to Dr. Watson."

Grace shrugged. "Maybe that can be arranged."

"What do you mean it can be arranged?" I demanded."You're preventing me from speaking to my physician?"

"You just said you don't have a physician," was the smug reply.

"Oh, good, you are paying attention." I leaned up. "Pay attention to this: You've been complicit in illegally detaining me. I'm sure you've been reassured that certain agencies will not interfere. And I know you don't like me."

Grace suddenly dropped all pretence. "You're right, I don't like you. You just destroyed a woman's happiness without any regard for her feelings, putting one of my best interns out of commission for a few weeks at least."

"I wasn't the one cheating on her."

"That's not the point!"

"That's exactly the point, Grace," I continued. "I'm sick, remember? If you've decided to dislike me, you've decided I'm responsible for my actions, in effect declaring me sane. So why am I still here? Are you sectioning on me account of your personal feelings towards me?"

"You're still an addict," she said, reassuming her "expert" mask. "You still need help. Just because you're highly intelligent doesn't mean you aren't sick. Just because you can manipulate, doesn't mean you're healthy. In fact, it's more evidence that you're not."

I sighed. "It's all academic anyway. You'll find some justification. I expect you've been ordered to, or your superior has."

She bit her lip, troubled in spite of herself. "I honestly do want to help you."

"Undoubtedly," I said acerbically. "If you want to help, discharge me. Immediately. You will regret it if you don't."

She closed down immediately, and I could almost see the gears working in her little mind as she boxed me into the category of "dangerous".

"Are you threatening me?" Her undertone was dire, affronted.

"No," I chuckled. "No. Not me."

She frowned. "Then what do you mean?"

"You would not believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

I considered. "No. I'm thirsty."

"Manners, Sherlock," she growled.

I glared at her. "You've kept me unconscious for days, tied me down and force fed me, all against my will, and I am not in the mood for bloody Oxbridge pleasantries. I'm also dehydrated, and if you're labouring under the delusion that the people who ordered my detention want you to mistreat me, you are mistaken. If you don't provide me with a decent level of treatment, expect to be sacked in short order. You won't be able to get a job in a petrol station, much less the medical profession."

Grace Malloy fixed me with an intent stare, weighing whether or not to take my recommendation, or allow dislike for me to fester. But professionalism and long experience prevailed. She stood up. "I'll bring you something from the canteen."

"Just water," I said, the idea of food making my stomach twist.

"You need to eat something." Again, the concern. Spare me.

"I've been on a feeding tube. Just water. Please."

She crossed her arms. "Will you give me your word that you'll try to eat something later?"

I nodded.

She considered me again for a long moment, then leaned down and unfastened the nylon straps. I stretched and arched, creating a symphony of cracks and clicks as my joints popped and my muscles extended. I leaned forward and grasped my ankles, making a more concerted effort to work the feeling back into my body.

"Stay in this room," Grace ordered. I waved a dismissive hand. I had no intention of leaving. She gave me another hard look, then turned and went to go get some water.

By the time she returned, I had, with some difficulty, been able to make several circuits of the room. My limbs felt less rubbery, at least, and the pins-and-needles feeling had started to subside. I lifted myself on to the edge of the bed, letting my feet dangle a few inches above the floor.

Grace set down a half dozen bottles of water, offering me one. I seized it and snapped the cap off, taking it all down in one gulp.

"Easy," she said, taking the bottle from me. "Just sips, okay? You'll make yourself sick."

I accepted a second bottle, and took small sips. The thirst was beginning to subside. I wondered what kind of drugs they had pumped into me. I could hazard a guess, but I'd rather be sure.

"How did you get here, Sherlock?" Grace asked suddenly. "You don't belong here."

I wiped my face on my sleeve. "What does it matter? I am here."

She pursed her lips, and took the two empty bottles back from me. "I'd like to know more about you."

I laughed. "Oh, I'm sure you would. Why don't you just ask my brother?"

"I've never spoken to your brother."

"Mm. Tell me another."

"Dr. Mathiasen talked to him."

I leaned back on the bed and put my fingers together, focusing on the ceiling. "And when do I talk to the doctor?"

"Why don't we wait until you've had something to eat? In an hour?"

I looked at her suspiciously. "Will you leave me alone until then?"

"As long as you stay in the wing until I come get you."

"Fair enough."


	2. GameChanger

John Watson's Blog (locked) 

April 16

It's been four days since Sherlock's been gone. Sarah's broken up with me. She left a voicemail saying she doesn't want to be involved. Exactly those words: "I don't want to be involved."

I've been trying to decide if Sherlock is tangentially responsible, but the truth is, it was all me. I knowingly followed him on to the battlefield; I didn't intend to drag her in to it. It wasn't all that big of a surprise, considering what we'd put her through.

I'd been feeling Sherlock's absence more keenly. I've tried again and again to get through to Mycroft and get some answers, but I keep getting fobbed off with some bollocks about his going on holiday. It's the same with Lestrade, which is absurd, because I could never see him going on holiday with corpses stacking like firewood. It reinforced my gut feeling that something was deeply wrong.

To make matters even better, Mycroft's having me followed. The blokes he'd chosen to do it were just the opposite of covert; the black unmarked Mercedes that had been parked across the street for the past three days was made even more conspicuous by the number of parking tickets decorating the windscreen, and a man in a black suit had been casing 221 B for the same amount of time. He wasn't hindering my movements, but followed me wherever I went.

I haven't been spending much time out of the flat, except to go to the shop for groceries. Probably some subconscious fear that I'll be out at the moment Sherlock chooses to appear. I woke late that morning, having been kept up by that constant nagging reminder that something had gone horribly wrong. I took a shower and went downstairs. I'd tried to tidy up, but had given up at the kitchen, which was still filled with Sherlock's chemistry equipment. There was really no way to clean around it without disturbing it, and I'd never hear the end of it if I interrupted some delicate chemical analysis.

My mobile was sitting on the coffee table. The screen showed I'd had one missed call. I checked the time, and felt a wave of guilt as I realised it was twenty past noon. The read-out showed it was from a unlisted number. I dialled it back.

"Saint Bartholomew's," came a receptionist-like greeting. I felt a hopeful spark. Maybe Sherlock was at the mortuary. Then I felt a horrible sinking sensation as I realised that he might very well be occupying one of their slabs.

"I received a call from this number?"

"Name?"

"John Watson."

"Hold, please."

I was subjected to only thirty seconds of awful telephonic music before someone picked up the line.

"John?" It was a familiar voice.

"Hello?"

"It's Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Hi, Molly. You rang?"

"Yes, I did." her voice was breathy, words coming a little too fast. "I'm sorry, I don't normally do this..."

"It's okay," I tried to reassure her, though I felt a bit jangled myself. "What can I do for you?"

"Can you come here? To the lab?"

"Now?"

"Yes, please."

I hesitated, but only for a second. "I'll be right there."

I got dressed at top speed, brushed my hair and pounded down the stairs. I was about to leave when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, my service pistol lying on the floor. I snatched it up and rifled through the closet for my shoulder holster, then hurried down to the street to hail a taxi.

My tail didn't seemed particularly alarmed; he flipped open a mobile phone, even giving me a little two fingered wave as I got into the cab. Slightly disorientated, I ordered the driver to take me to St. Barts.

We made it in excellent time, and I tipped the cabbie five pounds. I was making my way to the lab entrance, when I noticed an almost identical black-suited government agent lounging against the stair railing. For a half-second, I thought it was the agent tailing me, but realised quickly that there was no possible way it could be, as I had left him behind me not five minutes ago. Unless he could teleport, he couldn't have made it here before me.

The man was just eminently similar, maybe a few inches shorter, but with the same crew cut and wide aviator shades. He nodded at me as I passed, a casual mark of respect that seemed a bit misplaced, given I was the one under surveillance. His presence here could only mean that Mycroft had bugged my phone. I felt a fresh surge of anger.

I approached the receptionist's desk with a thin hope that she would recognise me, but I ended up having to provide her with credentials. She gave me a false smile. "We can't just let anyone in here, you know."

I wanted to argue, as I'd seen Sherlock blaze past without a word so many times, but now was not the moment. I made my way into the lab, turned into the mortuary, and found Molly bent over a truly horrific sight.

It was the partly-decomposed body of the Marcel driver, stiff from cold storage, his ribs spread wide with a chest spreader. On the counter, a series of metal pans held internal organs. Molly herself was concentrated on delicately excising the man's left kidney with a scalpel and a pair of forceps. With a small "ha" of success, she quickly transferred the kidney into an empty pan.

I cleared my throat, and Molly dropped the forceps on the surgical tray with a clatter. "Oh!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to interrupt," I said, taking a step forward. "I should've said something before."

"You just surprised me, is all." She held a hand to her heart, catching her breath. "I've been a bit jumpy lately."

"You sounded worried over the phone."

"Hold on a minute," she said, taking the surgical tray and wheeling it over to the counter, then loaded the extracted organs on it. She then proceeded to stow them in a tall industrial brushed- steel refrigerator. She turned to me, a quick smile flashing across her face. "I need to close him up, but I can talk and work at the same time."

She beckoned me back over to the corpse, and started to crank back the rib-spreader. "Give us a hand, will you?"

I took a pair of surgical gloves and snapped them on, looking on as Molly pried the spreader out of the chest cavity, and dumped it into a large steel sink. She motioned to the spool medium-grade translucent blue suture thread, meant expressly for use on cadavers. "Stitch him up for me, I'm sure you're faster at it than I am."

I acquiesced, taking up a large curved suture needle. I unwound a few lengths of thread and ran it through the needle, tying it off. I did a quick whip-stitch along the Y-incision, neat but loose, in case she needed to get into quickly it to replace the organs, required by British law in the event of the body's identification. While I worked, she busied herself with labelling the viscera, then turned to me. "Thanks for coming, John. I think...well, I panicked a little."

"What's bothering you?" I said, not looking up from my work.

"You saw that man at the door. With the suit and the glasses."

"I did," I acknowledged, waiting to see if I would be called upon to provide an answer for his presence. I wasn't sure how much she knew, or how wise it would be to disclose the reason.

"He's been following me for days."

I almost dropped the needle in surprise. "Following you?"

She bit her lip and nodded. "Yeah. I called 999, and they said they'd send a car, but never did. Then I called Lestrade, but I couldn't reach him. The dispatcher said he'd gone on holiday. He hasn't gone on holiday in years, John."

I digested this information. "Did you try talking to him?"

"He said he worked for the British government. That was it." She closed the fridge, looked at her distorted reflection on the steel surface, then turned to me. "He's been polite, perfectly polite, but all he'll tell me is that he's following orders."

"I've got one too," I said slowly. "More than one."

She sat back on a stool. "What on earth is going on?"

I completed the suture and tied it tight. "Mycroft is responsible for them, as far as I can tell."

She frowned. "Mycroft?"

"Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother. He works for the government. Well, Sherlock says he is the government, but whatever is going on, he's concerned."

"Oh, God," she breathed, tears springing to her eyes. "I thought...I thought it was..."

"Jesus." I peeled off the gloves and tossed them into the trash, going over to her and putting my hand on her shoulder. "Of course you'd think that. Mycroft should've told you. I don't know what he's thinking, having someone follow you. You've hardly got anything to do with this mess."

She was shaking. She'd only just been holding it together, I could tell. She took a few deep breaths, and leaned against me, just a little. She wiped her face on her sleeve, then straightened up. "I didn't even know Sherlock had a brother."

"Yeah, it came as a bit of a shock to me, too," I said with no little amount of irony.

"Is he all right? I thought he'd be back for the autopsy, but I haven't heard from him."

"Did you ring the hospital?" I asked, knowing she'd deliberately skated over it.

"Yeah," she admitted, colouring a little. "Said they'd released him days ago. But he won't pick up his mobile, I just keep getting a disconnected message."

"I don't know where he is," I confessed. "I've got his mobile and his things back at the flat. I know Sherlock's alive because Mycroft told me, but he's done something, railroaded him off somewhere. I'm going spare. Something's wrong, I know it."

"But why's he having me followed?" Molly wondered, sliding off the stool and turning to face me. "Is it because of the case?"

I looked at the corpse, the rough assemblage of organic matter that had once been a person. Maybe a person who had answers. Maybe there were still answers to be found in his decayed carcass. I put my hands on either side of the table, forced myself to look at the mass of buckshot-shredded flesh where there had once been a face. Then I looked into Molly's face, and stepped back from the table.

I exhaled a breath I'd been holding. "At the hospital, Mycroft said "the game has changed". I don't know what that means, but he must have been following our case from the beginning. Sherlock told me the Syndicate was dangerous, but now, without him, I don't know what to do."

Molly put her hand on my bicep. "Let's have a cup of tea. I think we could both use it."

I nodded to our deceased friend. "Shouldn't we pack him away, first?"

"Oh, the APT will sort him out." She smiled. "I'll be right back."

Ten minutes found us rumbling along in a cab back to 221 Baker Street. I only had a few quid left and it was closer than her flat in Streatham.

I helped her out of the cab and gave the cabbie what change I had left. The agent was waiting for us at the door, watching us with his blank Terminator gaze.

"Sir," he said on my approach. "In the future, I would appreciate it if you would clear with me before you leave the monitored area."

"Why?" I said, annoyed. "You knew where I was going."

He pulled off the glasses, and I saw he was quite a bit younger than I'd expected. He gave me a very serious look, and I had to resist the urge to laugh.

"It is in your interest to comply."

"Why's that?" Molly said suddenly, and I could almost feel the anger radiating off her. "All you've done is follow us around and chat on your mobiles. If you're here to protect us, wouldn't we be safer if we knew what you were protecting us from?"

This logic seemed to throw our government chum; he clearly was not at all used to having to account for his actions, and certainly not to a small, irritated pathologist.

"Ma'am," he said in a carefully affected monotone. "I cannot disclose classified information at this time. I am sure my superiors will brief you when they are ready, but you are going to have to be patient."

"Well you can tell your superiors-"

I put a hand on Molly's shoulder, and shook my head. Her resolve wavered, and she looked uncertainly at me.

"We're going inside. Get out of the way." I ordered.

The agent put his sunglasses back on, and turned to let us pass. As we did, I noticed a shiny chrome plated Sig Sauer Elite tucked into his shoulder holster. It was a very ostentatiously displayed piece of hardware, and reinforced my belief that whoever these guys were, they were not trained covert intelligence operatives. And rank amateurs, to boot. It would be nothing for me to grab the gun and blow the poor idiot's head off, but that violent impulse vanished almost the moment it appeared.

As I closed and locked the door, I tried to envision a scenario in which Mycroft would employ these glorified security guards. He obviously wanted a very visible government presence, but why? It wasn't his style at all. Whatever he was "protecting" us from, he was trying to deter it with muscle, not strategy. Or was it a deeper strategy? I really needed Sherlock for this kind of thing. Again, I felt that pang of emptiness, that thin hope that I would find him lying on the sofa when I reached the landing.

"You're far away," Molly said gently.

I turned her to her. "Sorry. I'm just...confused."

"It's hard without him, isn't it?"

I didn't want to admit it out loud, so I ignored the question and beckoned her to follow me. "We're upstairs."

We went in through the kitchen. Molly feasted her eyes on the incredible pile of equipment dominating the kitchen table. "Wow. I didn't expect it to be so messy. Sherlock always struck me as being so..." she paused, searching for the word. "Type-A."

I laughed softly. "He's more like Type-Sherlock. I tried to tidy up, but he'd kill me if I messed up one of his experiments."

Molly nodded and followed me into the sitting room, which was a little less cluttered. "Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"None."

She sat back on the sofa, sinking into the indentation usually occupied by Sherlock. "And you think it's the Syndicate? Or Mycroft, maybe?"

I shrugged. "It could be either. He could be dead. He could be with Irene Adler; or they might both be dead. He's got no shortage of enemies, and he and his brother aren't exactly friends."

"Wait, wait," she held up a hand. "With Irene Adler? Why would he be with Irene Adler?"

"They're involved," I said shortly. "Or at least, they slept together. I don't know."

Molly's face was slack with disbelief. I'd expected her to be jealous or disappointed, but she was clearly stunned. "They slept together?"

"In my bed."

"Your- what?"

"Never mind." I stood up and went into the kitchen to make tea. "The point is, he let her waltz out of here when he was supposed to bring her straight to Scotland Yard."

"She was going to turn evidence," she said thoughtfully. "I heard Lestrade talking about it on his mobile, right before you guys turned up at the hospital."

I set the mug on the counter a little too hard. "My God. No wonder it's all gone balls up. Maybe that's why Mycroft's so paranoid."

"How well do you know him, anyway?" she asked as she got up, took the kettle from me and started to rummage around our cupboard for some tea. "Black currant okay?"

"Yeah." I leaned back against the counter, fixing my gaze on the congealed mass resting at the bottom of one of Sherlock's glass beakers. "And you're right, I don't know Mycroft that well. But when we first met, he did say that he worries about Sherlock all the time. I believed him."

"Then maybe Sherlock is where he needs to be." Molly pulled the chipped old teapot down from the shelf. "Maybe he has a reason for not calling. There's a lot we don't know."

"You might be right," I admitted. "But not knowing, it's driving me mad."

She squeezed my shoulder reassuringly, then poured tea into my mug. "Milk or cream?"

"Milk." I nodded to the fridge. "Mind the head."

"Sorry?"

"The severed head. I would've named him, but it's not good to get too attached to someone so detached." I felt extraordinarily clever and evil at the same time, and was deeply anticipating her reaction to Sherlock's refrigerated friend.

"Ha-ha," she said with a roll of her eyes, then opened the fridge, stared for a moment, then, remarkably, recovered. "Oh. It's Mr. Davies. I was wondering where he'd got to."

Without a second's hesitation, she reached around the grotesque extremity and pulled out the almost empty carton of milk. "You're nearly out."

I was still shocked at the impressive spectacle of her total nonchalance in the face of...well, Mr. Davies, I suppose. I flashed on an image of Sarah's potential reaction, and almost reflexively shuddered at the phantom sound of her screaming.

"I do have some Baileys gathering dust somewhere. My sister gave it to me as a welcome-home present," I offered.

"I don't know if I've ever had Baileys in tea. Is it any good?"

"Won't know until we try." I went down on my hands and knees to dig through the lower cupboard where I'd stuffed all the "sort out later" bits and pieces, and after a moment of searching, extracted a slightly gummy bottle of Baileys Irish Cream. I straightened up, twisted the cap off and added a measure to my mug. I lifted it, and sipped it.

"Well?"

"Not nearly as bad as I thought it would be." I took another sip. "Bit sweet, but otherwise."

She smiled as she accepted a mug of doctored tea. "You're not a sweet kind of guy?"

I sat down next to her. "Actually, I'm a serial killer."

"You really shouldn't joke about that."

I pursed my lips, looked at her expectantly. She tried to hold a straight face, but it cracked, and she let out a wry little chuckle. Just the barest shimmering of tears rimmed her eyes, and she leaned over, taking a long sip of the spiked tea.

"God, this is sweet," she said, making a face. Then she took a longer sip. "Not bad, though."

I clinked my mug against hers. "I think we could both use it."

Molly nodded, took another sip, then leaned back against the couch. "Jim was very kind," she said suddenly, but as though it had taken tremendous effort. "Perfect, really, except for that gay thing. He just teased me about being jealous and kissed me afterwards. I haven't...well, I don't get out that much. I work with dead things. I'm not the best judge of character."

She was turning pink. I put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Don't worry. The number of actual relationships I've had I can count on one hand."

"Scared to commit?" she smiled.

I took a good slug of the spiked tea. "More like I'm the guy that girls ring when they've just been jilted by bad boys. And when the bad boys call, they just go running back. I've given up trying to figure it out."

"I never liked bad boys," Molly said, gazing down into her cup. "I mean, I thought...God, it's all confused. All I know now is that I'm confused. He never hurt me, John."

I was starting to feel the edge of the alcohol, and was a bit too fuzzy to craft an effective "comfort" strategy.

"Molly, you're a find. Sharp, attractive. Any guy would be lucky to have you. It's just bad luck you got the psychopath."

She turned to me, and gazed in earnest at me. "Do you really think he's a psychopath?"

"Well, yes," I said heavily. "He kidnapped me and strapped a bunch of Semtex to me, and tried to blow me and Sherlock up, almost successfully."

"I know. God. I know that," she held a hand to her mouth, and I could see the tears that had been threatening to fall starting to leak from the corner of her eyes. "How is it I can know that and still...miss him? I feel like he owes me an explanation. It's completely stupid."

"It's not. It's just human nature. But Molly, look at me." She obeyed, eyes a little red. "You have to be careful. You're in as much danger from him as we are, maybe more. He will kill you, given the chance."

She went a bit pale. "Do you really think so?"

I nodded. "I know so."

She held my gaze for a moment, then proffered her empty cup. "I think I need another. Not tea."

I took it and made my way into the kitchen. I was able to unearth an ice tray from under some vacuum sealed eyeballs. I decided not to share that discovery with my guest, but instead turned and cracked some ice into two mismatched old-fashioned glasses. I poured the Baileys over it and walked back to the sitting room.

She downed half the drink in one go, and leaned forward, pressing the cold glass to her forehead. "That's nice, thank you. I would really like to get drunk tonight."

I nodded, already more than halfway there. "I think we can manage that. No work tomorrow?"

"I'm booking off," she said resolutely. "If you're right, and you think he's out there...I'm not safe there." She laughed bitterly. "Or anywhere, really."

I watched her for a moment over the rim of my glass, and thought to myself what an idiot Sherlock was, treating her like she was a disposable tool. Not strapped with his overbearing presence, she was more relaxed, more eloquent, her brightness shining through without the burden of anxiety. Or maybe she was just too exhausted to be nervous.

My eyes gone from hers down to her mouth, which was softened despite the furrow between her brows. She was rather cute in her pale blue jumper and navy corduroys patterned with tiny roses. From my vantage point, I could see just down into the v-neck of the jumper to black satin bra, the tiny cluster of pink roses gathered at the front clasp.

I immediately shook my head to clear it of any sinful urges and set down my drink. Why did I always lose my head whenever a beautiful woman paid the slightest bit of attention to me? I was such a completely inept philanderer. And drunk.

I was trying to reconcile this thought when Molly picked up the glass and polished off the rest of the Baileys. She leaned back against the sofa and turned her head to look at me. Her eyes were glassy, lips parted. She was as intoxicated as I was, her cheeks rosy. I moved a fraction closer to her.

"John," she rose, a little wobbly, a little uncertain. "Maybe I should..."

I caught her arm. "Stay." I said, just above a whisper, hating the desperation in my voice. Was I desperate? Or just lonely?

"You've been so kind to me," her voice was soft. I let go of her.

"I'm sorry. You're right. It would be unfair for me to-"

Her mouth was on mine before I could react. But I did react, pulling her down against me, sliding one hand into her hair, loosening it out of its ponytail. She was kissing me, desperately, deep, drunk, sloppy, tasting like Baileys. She pulled back to look at me with her dark eyes wide, pupils slightly dilated.

She bit her now-swollen lip. "I want to trust you."

"Molly," I said thickly. "I will not let anyone hurt you."

"You won't hurt me?" Her lip quivered, now.

"Never."

She stood, hesitated, then peeled off the fuzzy blue jumper, unsnapped the corduroys and let them fall. She stepped out of them, revealing a pair of black knickers that matched her bra. Her skin was pale, with a loose constellation of freckles. Her figure, now unencumbered by the fluffy cuteness, was lithe and lovely.

Watching her face, waiting for permission, I reached out and gently touched my fingertips to her flank. I stood up and folded her into my arms, kissing her, savouring the taste sweet Irish cream whiskey combined with the wet warm softness of her mouth. She pulled away, smiled mischievously, and took me by the hand. Wordlessly, she turned and led me up the stairs.


	3. Happy Birthday, Wanda June

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes 

April 16

Fifteen minutes later found me in the canteen. I sat in front of a bowl of oatmeal, contemplating it as it congealed. It was instant packaged oatmeal, I knew, because I'd requested it. It was not altogether appetising, but even so, it would not do for me to end up back on the feeding tube, so I took a few small bites, added a little bit of salt, and then took a few more.

The initial nausea dissipated, and I ate with gusto. By the time Grace had returned, I'd finished the entire bowl, pushing it away.

"Would you like anything else?" she asked. "An apple, maybe?"

I looked up at her. "Do you have oranges?"

"I'll go slice one for you."

"No," I said quickly. "I'd rather peel it myself, if it's all the same."

She arched a brow, but nodded, and turned away. A minute later she was back with a ripe orange that was very orange. I accepted it from her, and carefully wiped it with a paper napkin I'd soaked in the non-toxic hand sanitiser positioned near the ingress. She focused intensely on me, and I ignored her, tearing into the rind and pulling it away from the flesh. I continued to ignore her as I pressed the pips out of the orange segments, selected a number of them, rolled them into another paper napkin, and put them in the breast pocket of my scrub shirt.

I then popped one of the slices into my mouth and leaned back, watching for Grace's reaction. She looked, as I expected, deeply confused, and waiting for an explanation.

"It's a little...inside joke. Running joke, that is," I said, with a grin. "But please do write it up on my chart if you think it will interest the doctor."

"Or you could just tell me in person," said a voice from behind me. It was a man, a few inches shorter than myself, with greying hair, stubble and a warm avuncular countenance beneath round John-Lennon spectacles. He wore a white lab coat over a faded black cardigan, his name tag clipped to the dense fabric.

I did not rise from my chair, but looked him up and down. Doctor Richard Mathiasen. Aged closer fifty than forty, he held his left side a bit stiff, and upon closer inspection, looked rather careworn. He exchanged a glance with Grace before taking a seat opposite me. He offered me his hand.

"Sherlock, I'm Dr. Mathiasen. You can call me Richard, if you want."

I took the hand, shook it. "Doctor."

A small smile twitched in the corner of his mouth. "I've spoken to your brother. He's very concerned about you, Sherlock."

"How thoughtful." I munched another orange slice. "Everyone's concerned."

"We're concerned because you tried to kill yourself," the doctor said, with his concerned-face on.

I chuckled, leaned back and watched him as I toyed with the last segment, the flesh dripping juice down my index finger and thumb. "Is that what Mycroft told you?"

"That's the conclusion we reached." The doctor leaned in close. "Now, Sherlock, we know that you're very intelligent. We know you're a very accomplished chemist, among other things. What you did would have required a lot of planning. A lot of premeditation."

I sucked the bit of orange off my finger, and fixed him with a dull, bored stare. "Correct. It would have taken a great deal of premeditation. I'm so glad we concur."

Mathiasen leaned back, folded his arms, frowning. Evidently he was having trouble getting a fix on me. "What do you think is happening here?"

I considered as I wiped the stickiness from my hands with a napkin. "I've been sectioned. Obviously."

"Yes, but what happens here is up to you. You have to be willing to accept help."

"I would be very glad to accept your help." I stretched out, feeling my vertebrae crack in succession, which felt wonderful after being stationary for so long. "If I thought it would be any use to me."

"You're sectioned, as you said," Grace piped up. "You don't think our help would be useful? Do you want to stay here forever?"

"I don't intend to stay here," I said calmly. "But the longer it takes you to release me increases the threat of danger to you and to the other patients."

"Sherlock," the doctor laid a hand on my wrist. I didn't jerk it away, merely watched him. "We take the threat of violence very seriously here. You don't want to go back to being restrained and put on a feeding tube, do you?"

I delicately removed the doctor's hand from my wrist and sat back. "I did not say that danger would come from me. In all probability, it will be directed _at_ me, but I rather think the actual method may be less discriminatory."

The doctor's face softened; I had ventured back into territory he believed to be familiar. "Do you believe someone is trying to hurt you?"

I brought my legs up and crossed them, laced my fingers and let my chin just rest on them. "It is not a belief; it is a _fait accompli._ Someone is trying very hard to kill me, and have come very close, as you yourselves have seen. I didn't poison that cocaine."

"You did ingest it," the doctor needlessly reminded me.

"Irrelevant. The question is not whether I am an addict. It is not whether I am suicidal. It is whether or not I am telling the truth." I unfolded myself and leaned forward, looking hard at both of them. "You have two options: you can either hope to hell that I'm wrong, or you can take me seriously. Consider yourselves warned."

Doctor Mathiasen was genuinely confused, possibly because my lunatic ravings sounded rather like candour. "Even if you could convince me of that...you don't sound worried, Sherlock, and that worries me more."

I shrugged. "I know what's going to happen. I don't know how, but I am prepared. Why waste energy worrying over it?"

"I'm going to keep you in isolation," Dr. Mathiasen said decisively. "I don't think it would be safe for you to mix with the general population just yet. You're obviously going to need some time to work through your delusions."

"Ah." I glanced at Grace, who was nodding solemnly in agreement, then looked back at Mathiasen. "Well, the same can be said for you, doctor. I leave it up to you to decide a course of action, and you of course will bear the responsibility for whatever happens next."

I rose slowly, not taking my eyes off the doctor, who seemed to be having trouble reconciling his perspectives. It remained to be seen whether Mycroft had instructed him with reference to the actual position, or he had just reeled of a litany of aspersions on my sanity. Mathiasen was either an excellent actor, or he was beginning to doubt his initial diagnosis.

I would have to reserve judgement on Dr. Mathiasen. The only data I had so far was incidental and of little foreseeable use

The doctor rose and gave me gentle pat on the shoulder. "We'll talk soon, Sherlock."

I nodded, said nothing, but stood and allowed Grace to lead me out of the canteen. She brought me back to the room, where a few amenities had been introduced: a table, a television set, a chair, and a stack of magazines, along with a notebook, and a little half-sized pencil.

"Is there anything else you need?" Grace asked kindly. Apparently she too had decided to reserve judgment.

"No. Thank you." I shifted the pile out of the way and sat cross-legged on the bed. "If I am hungry, I assume I can go to the canteen?"

"You can buzz for a nurse," she held up the little buzzer. "Someone can get you whatever you need."

"Fair enough."

She set a remote control on the bed next to me. "Try not to stay up too late."

I didn't look at her, but flipped on the telly. There was nothing of interest on, so I clicked through a few different channels to BBC World News and left it there, volume low.

Grace sucked her teeth for a moment, debating whether or not to reprimand me for my rudeness. She decided against it.

"Breakfast is at seven," she said shortly, then turned and left without another word.

I filed through the magazines and found nothing of interest there, either. Mostly cultural interests that were outdated by a few weeks. I turned my attention to the notebook. It was perfectly ordinary, a stock-bound composition book, with no staples or spiral binding.

Anything I wrote would no doubt be scrutinised. I toyed with the idea of putting a few psychological abstractions to paper, just to give my captors something to scratch their heads over. I had just started to scratch out Euclid's Third Proposition in sloppy Greek when an image on the television screen flashed in the corner of my eye.

I looked up. The newscast was showing footage of Irene Adler and Caleb Marcel, descending the steps of the Old Bailey amidst a lighting storm of paparazzi flashbulbs. It was footage from Marcel's last trial, at which I had been the key witness.

The graphic beneath the image read: "Marcel Criminal Defender believed dead in Cayman Island harbour arson."

I immediately turned up the volume, my entire attention arrested, eyes fixed on the television screen.

"This is only an initial report, but Cayman Island customs officials can confirm that Miss Adler did enter the country a few days ago, and the passport recovered from the wreckage does seem to indicate that it was the famed criminal defender who met her death in the early hours of the morning in a massive arson fire that destroyed half the marina and killed five people."

The image showed footage of an occupied body bag being lifted from a docked boat and transferred into an ambulance. It cut to a shot of a very soggy passport, the photograph undoubtedly Irene, looking stoically into the camera. Another shot showed the visa entry stamp with clear as day, a thick blue mark. There was water damage and the ink had run, but it was still very clearly identifiable as a Cayman Island official customs stamp.

"Miss Adler and an unidentified Caucasian male were discovered in the burnt out wreckage of the sailing vessel _Wanda June_, anchored off the Cayman shore. Cayman Island officials refuse to comment until the investigation begins, but it is believed that Adler's companion is also a British national. The Cayman Police will be coordinating with Scotland Yard and Interpol, and will attempt to positively identify the two bodies with dental records. In the mean time, the islands have been locked down, with all outgoing flights grounded, and all cruises cancelled. Police will continue to monitor the harbours very closely in hopes of intercepting the suspect, but Scotland Yard officials have remarked that it is "very likely the culprit has already left the island."

I sat back, watching the screen blankly as it switched to a report about the dedication of a new motorway. I had just enough presence of mind to switch it off, then lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Irene, dead? Despite my vast and varied imagination, I could not imagine her dead. More than that. It couldn't be true. It simply couldn't. It was too random. Of course, I couldn't ignore the possibility that dear old Jim might have orchestrated the whole thing in order to clean house. That was certainly possible.

Still, there was something wrong. I didn't know what it was yet. I was confused, and there was a hollowness in my chest. Wrong. She couldn't be dead. It had to be a ruse, a stratagem meant to take the heat off. Did they expect me to be deceived? Or was it simply that, a freak incident?

No. I knew it was wrong. Even separated from the fact that I was invested in the chase, there was some alarm bell ringing in my mind. There was some detail that was eluding me, buried under the shock and the unexpected flood of emotion that had risen up in me.

She was alive. That was all there was to it. I would touch her skin again. I knew it because I wanted her, wanted to catch her, wanted to beat her as she had beaten me. She had to be alive, because I had to chase her.

As soon as I manifested that thought, I relaxed. I might be agitated, but that didn't mean I couldn't trust my instincts. If I began second-guessing myself constantly I would end up paralysed and unable to act. Though, considering recent events, maybe it would be wiser not to take anything for granted where Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty were concerned.

I leaned back and drifted into the semi-conscious state; awake, but detached, free associating, and trying to picking out connections. It was like a dream-state, my body physically relaxed, but my mind still ticking away.

Yet there was a tactile sensation I could not escape. She had been thrust back into my mind, and my body remembered the sensation of her. That soft skin, so carefully tended with emollients and spa treatments. Her scent in my nostrils...all the spa treatments in the world could not eliminate that slightly musky odour, that animal scent. Or that slightly gamy, rare taste of her mouth. Salty, metallic. She liked her steak just so, a little rarer than medium; I knew it because I'd tailed her once to the Maze Grill, one of her favourite restaurants, and ordered the same meal she preferred, a New York strip steak.

I smiled at the ceiling. No, she was not dead. I could taste it.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because I was awoken by the breakfast announcement blaring from a speaker mounted over the doorway. I didn't usually take breakfast, but I felt I could've managed a cup of tea. There was an orderly camped outside the door, ready to intercept me should I try to go to the canteen unaccompanied.

"Mr. Holmes, good morning," he said brightly. He was a very young man, blond, well groomed, with a native London accent, bent just this side of BBC. I checked the badge: Aaron Kay, Mental Health Professional.

"Call me Sherlock. I wonder, could I get a cup of tea?"

"Follow me."

I trailed after him down the hallway into the canteen. A buffet of breakfast foods had been prepared and the kitchen staff were serving from behind a Plexiglas window. Nauseating.

"Sure you don't want anything to eat?" Aaron asked.

"Tea," I repeated, then reached for a packet of instant oatmeal from a basket. "And this. If you don't mind."

"Coming up," he said brightly. "Have a seat."

I perched back on one of the benches, and observed the assembled patients. They varied in age, were of both genders, and they too wore the blue scrubs that appeared to delineate patients from staff. For the most part they didn't look at me, though a few cast me sidelong glances. Many of them were zombielike, a combination of early-morning fatigue and heavy medication.

As they started to group themselves around tables, Aaron the Mental Health Professional returned with two steaming cups of tea, a bowl of oatmeal, and a plate of potatoes for himself. He set it down in front of him, and took one of the cups, blowing on it.

"So, first day?" He was watching me closely. I felt my hackles rise a little; now that I was fully aware, I was hyper-suspicious.

"Technically no," I said, setting my tea aside so it could cool and starting in on the oatmeal.

"Technically?"

"They kept me under for a number of days."

"You must have been in bad shape," he said quietly. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better," I admitted. "But they might prescribe medication."

His lip scrunched up. "Nah. You're not one of the crazy ones."

I flashed him a grin, wide with lots of teeth. "How can you tell?"

His eyes widened a fraction, then he grinned back, taking a generous bite of potatoes. "I just can."

"Quick study," I remarked, taking a sample sip of my tea and finding it cool enough. "Considering you've only been here...what, a few weeks?"

Aaron licked his lips. "How do you figure that?"

I nodded to the bright diamond stud in his earlobe. "You'd know better than to wear something that attracts attention in a closed ward. Were I a violent patient, I might've already tried to tear it out."

Aaron went pink. He glanced around and surreptitiously removed the stud and pocketed it. "You're right. It's my second week."

I pushed away the empty bowl and sat back with my cup of tea, watching him through the thin wisp of steam. "Are you liking it?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I've only worked in the addiction wing, but they're letting me run a group twice a week."

"Because you were an addict yourself."

The young man showed some surprise, but recovered quickly. "Good guess. What gave it away?"

"It wasn't a guess," I chastised.

He sucked a little on his teeth, starting to look a bit uncomfortable. "How could you tell?"

"My advice," I said matter-of-factly. "Get your remaining teeth whitened, so they better match your dental implants."

He let out a breath, and ran his tongue over his front teeth. "God, for a minute I thought it was something obvious."

"It is obvious. Everything is obvious, once it's pointed out," I said bitterly as I drained the bitter dregs of my tea and crumpled the paper cup. "The trouble is no one bothers to look. No one will notice the tiny wheeze that comes from the hole in your nasal septum whenever you breathe, either. Nobody sees anything unless it's put right in front of their faces."

"So I'm safe?" he said humorously, picking up the crumpled cup.

"As much as the rest of us," I said with a shrug. "We're all safer in here the way tuna is safer in a tin."

"They told me you were one of the paranoid ones."

"You have no idea." I took the cup back from him, stood, tossed it into the rubbish bin a few feet away. I rolled my head back on my neck, feeling my bones crack together, and the sudden relief of tension. "So, Aaron, what's on the agenda today?"

He shrugged. "Up to you. You're not allowed into groups. We can't walk on the grounds, because you're not allowed out there, either."

"I'm on escape watch," I said unnecessarily.

He nodded. "Suicide watch, too."

I put a hand over my heart. "Say it isn't so."

"I'm afraid it is."

I nodded to the canteen entrance. "Can we walk the ward?"

"I don't see why not."

We made our way out into a kind of day room. There was a large television behind a Plexiglas cover, and several solid-block rubber chairs gathered around it. They had been shoved together, leaving rubber skid marks on the linoleum floor.

The entire ward was t-shaped, with the men's wing on one end, the women's on the other, the canteen at the centre, and off that, the isolation wing where I was currently making my home. The nurses' desk occupied the apex of the T, flanked by two doors. They were both key-coded, but one had a Dutch door, and another door that communicated with the area behind the high desk. The medication was no doubt stored and distributed from there.

The nurses' desk was not the only point of ingress; I had seen an elevator at the end of the isolation ward. It too was coded, but unlikely to be used by the regular staff.

"May I sit?" I asked.

"Of course," Aaron said, trying not to laugh. "You're not in a prison, Sherlock."

"Am I not?" I said, without irony. He looked away and sighed, but did not offer any of the platitudes that seemed to be common trade around here.

I selected a chair that afforded me a view of the nurses' desk, and also a view through corresponding entrances in the canteen that connected the main ward with the isolation wing, so that I could clearly see the elevator as well.

And so I passed the next three hours. Aaron once or twice attempted to strike up conversation, but when he realised I was absorbed, gave up. He contented himself with an outdated auto magazine, while I watched the occupants of the ward go about their business.

The flow of traffic was of a restricted nature, being a very restricted environment. Nurses and other staff came and went through the coded door. Once or twice, a new patient was walked or wheeled in through the elevator door into a private room. As the shift came to a close, a lanky porter in grey coveralls stepped out of the elevator, cleaning cart in tow. I considered him for a moment, glanced at the clock, then turned to my companion, who was almost dozing.

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You don't know?" Aaron straightened up.

I stretched and unfolded myself. "I know that I'm in the west; I can see a wide expanse of water from my quarters, presumably the Bristol channel."

"Portishead. I can't believe they didn't tell you that."

Grace was approaching us. She smiled down at me, a stretched, forced smile. "And how are we doing?"

"Oh, fine," Aaron said. "We were, what...we were meditating."

"Meditating, yes," I said, giving her a thin smile.

She smiled back, and held out a little cup with two little orange tablets in it, and a bottle of water. "I want you to take these."

"Haloperidol." I looked distastefully at them.

She nodded.

I cocked my head. "I'm afraid not, Nurse Grace."

"You'll be confined to your room."

I shrugged. "Fair enough."

"Aaron, take Sherlock to his room before your shift's done."

"Ma'am."

I went along quietly enough with the young orderly, and ignored his sympathetic expression. His shift was over, that was important. I glanced again at the clock. It was almost noon. Presumably, the nursing staff worked in six hour shifts. The porter had come in at quarter to noon. Did a porter come in at every shift change? I would have an ideal vantage point from my room, I'd have to be sure to keep an eye out.

"I'm sorry about this. I don't think you're crazy," Aaron said as he moved to close the door.

I grinned. "Not yet."

"I'll see you tomorrow." He shut the door.

Through the window I could see him exchanging with another orderly, this one a plump middle-aged man in purple scrubs. He gave me a little smile and a wave, which I ignored, instead turning my attention to the window.

The afternoon sun glittered on the Bristol Channel. I hadn't given it much thought before, except to as reference to my geographical location. The orange pips I had placed on the window sill had dried. I knew better than to expect a chance to bestow them on my would-be assassin, so I decided to leave them on the sill in hopes that they would be discovered and understood. I wanted to them to know I was coming for them.

I sat back on the bed, folded myself up and gazed out the window. West was the direction I needed to go, but not by myself.

For the first time since awaking in the hospital, I wondered where John stood in all this. Clearly Mycroft would have me believe that John had given his blessing for my incarceration here, but I could not, would not believe that. It was just the kind of thing Mycroft would try to do, divide me from my only friend.

I would a fool not to recognise than neither John nor myself were as effective apart as we were when we worked together. I had been an idiot to go alone to the swimming pool instead of confiding in him, and it had nearly gotten us both killed.

Patience was something John had in abundance. He might not hold a candle to me in the realm of analysis and deduction, but he was careful. It burned to admit it, but I needed him now. I would need his slow, plodding point of view to temper me. At what point, I wondered, had the man become my common sense?

If he were here now, what would he do? He'd start with the obvious. I had learned, much to my chagrin, that while the overlooked might be obvious to me, the obvious I might in turn overlook in favour of some deeper and more satisfyingly complex explanation. I had to own to the fact that sometimes the simple things went way over my head. But not John. He was blessed with the ability to see what was in front of him and choose his target.

What had Mycroft told him? It was impossible to know, and I hated it. Mycroft was playing some deeper game and I must have been disrupting it or he wouldn't have put me away. Well, two could play that game, and I had the advantage of him; I knew how to fight.

I lay back on the bed, angling myself so that I could see the door's window in one corner of my eye. I flipped on the telly, turning it to the BBC World News. Nothing about Irene Adler or the Cayman Island fire. I turned the volume down low and picked up the notebook. I started sketching out some complex chemical equations, not really paying attention at all. Then I flipped to a clean page, sharpened the pencil on the rough wall behind me, and began to sketch.

I was adept enough when it came to technical drawings, but adapting my hand to create curves instead of angles was a challenge. Eventually, I had approximated Irene Adler's generous proportions in silhouette. I went over to the television, reached behind it for one of the warranty stickers. I peeled it off, then posted the image on the window. I considered it for a beat, then took up my dull stub of a pencil and sketched target lines around it.

I meditated on the image for the remainder of the shift, thinking aimlessly how much I'd like to have John's pistol now. Another porter in coveralls passed the window just as I saw the heavy-set plum-coloured nursing aide get up and exchange positions with another person, this time a middle-aged woman.

It confirmed my hypothesis: the cleaning staff came in at every shift change. It made sense; this was a hospital, and in a ward full of people who couldn't be counted on to look after themselves physically, so it was doubly necessary to prevent any kind infectious disease from spreading.

Armed with this information, I got into bed, turned away from the door and fell into a doze, just aware enough that I would be able to react quickly on the off chance someone came charging through the door. Not that it was likely. My assailant would be subtle and silent. But I would be ready.

Time passed uneventfully. I was almost disappointed; I was anxious to act, but I knew that to do so prematurely might get me killed, or worse, trapped here indefinitely. The sun rose slowly, climbing up and eventually casting a reflection on the western water. It filtered through the window and highlighted the dark hair of the person stationed outside my door. It was Aaron, back again for another shift.

I raised myself from my bed and stretched, then ambled over to the door and rapped on the glass. Aaron turned and smiled, then pressed his keycard against the lock. It clicked. I pulled the door open, and leaned against the door frame.

"Morning," he said in a friendly voice, but he appeared fatigued. "I'm supposed to tempt you with these."

He held out the little cup of medication and offered me a bottle of water. I took the bottle, but left the cup sitting in his palm. He gave me a wry look.

"You're not going to leave this hospital until you start cooperating, you know."

"We'll see," I said as I twisted off the cap and took a drink. "You don't look well, Aaron."

He shrugged. "Something's going around. Some of the staff called in today."

"Interesting," I said, taking another drink. "And the patients?"

"A couple of them are under the weather, but I'm sure-" He took a deep, gasping breath, and then licked his lips. "Sure they'll be fine."

His face was turning blue. His knees buckled, and he collapsed on to his face. I immediately went to my knees and shoved him over on to his back. His eyelids were drooping, but ophthalmoparesis had manifested in his left eye, which had wandered independently of his right.

His entire face had gone slack, but his body was twitching, his arms and legs going rigid. He was gasping for air like a fish out of water.

I didn't hesitate, but pinched his nostrils shut and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He made a choking noise, took a few laboured breaths, which became progressively shallower.

"Help!" I bellowed, the noise echoing down the hall. "Help, here!"

Several nurses' aides appeared, the head nurse Grace close behind. She took one look at the prone man, then at me, her face livid.

"What did you do to him?"

Two of the aides had seized my arms. They dragged me up and held me pinned between them.

"I didn't do anything," I said quickly. "He's ill. He won't be the last. You need to quarantine the unit, immediately."

A paramedic team appeared and lifted Aaron on to a gurney, fixing a bag-valve mask to his face. They strapped him down and hustled him away to the emergency ward.

Grace stayed just long enough to order me restrained to my bed. "Both of you keep watch and make sure he doesn't try anything else until we have a chance to investigate."

I fought against my captors, struggling to get closer to the head nurse. "Grace. Please. You have to trust me. Restrain me, but tell the doctor to quarantine the ward."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "You just tried to kill this man!"

"I did not," I insisted. "Someone must have tainted the food, anyone who's eaten it-"

"Enough," she growled. "Take him to his room and sedate him."

She turned her back and walked briskly after the paramedics.

The two orderlies manhandled me back into my room. I went with them quietly enough, but my mind was racing. They strapped the bands across me again, and inserted a fresh IV needle into the crook of my arm. One of them inserted a small hypodermic needle into the IV hub. They then turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind them.

I felt as though a thick blanket of stupefaction was coating my brain. Haloperidol. I relaxed and let the effects wash over me, my thoughts becoming muddy. My body felt as though it was weighted down. If someone wanted to kill me now, this would be the ideal time to do it. There was nothing I could do. Hopefully Grace would remember my warning, but it didn't seem likely. I decided to do the only logical thing, closed my eyes, and drifted off into a deep sleep. 


	4. Shock Therapy

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 18

I was awoken by someone gently pressing their wrist to my forehead. I opened my eyes, alertness returning rapidly as I regained consciousness, and rolled them upwards to see who it was that was tending me.

"You're awake," a small female voice said. "How are you feeling?"

It was Beth. Her expression was tired, but not unkind. They must have been busy in the past few hours.

"I am feeling a distinct sense of deja vu." I gave her a small smile. "I thought you'd gone."

"They needed me. A lot of people are sick."

"Did they order a quarantine?"

She nodded. "They think you did it."

I rolled my head to look up at the ceiling. "Perfect."

"I'm sorry," she said, and there was a flush in her cheeks. "I really am."

"For what?"

She ignored the question, and reached for a bottle of water sitting on the tray. "Are you thirsty at all?"

I lifted my head as much as I could. "What are you sorry for?"

Her lower lip was trembling, and her eyes had brightened with tears. "I'm sorry I have to do this, Sherlock. They'll kill him if I don't."

"You tainted the food. You put botulinum toxin in it, didn't you."

The small woman lifted a needle out of the pocket of her bright floral patterned scrubs.

"Beth," I said slowly, watching her as she moved towards the IV stand. "You don't have to do this. I have friends who can protect you."

She shook her head, trying to dash the tears out of her eyes. "You can't. They have my fiancé. It doesn't matter what happens to me."

"They'll kill both of you anyway."

She inserted the needle into the IV hub, and depressed the plunger.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, then turned and quickly left, head down, trying to hide the tears that were falling in earnest now.

I glanced at the IV, at the needle still hanging from the hub, and I immediately knew what it contained. I tried to move, to jerk away, but I was pinned by the nylon bands. The nylon restraints around my wrists were fixed to the metal guard rails on either side of the bed. I grasped them, raised my body as much as I could against the bands, and violently shifted my weight as hard as I could.

The bed jumped a few inches to the left. I rocked hard in that direction, the bed shifting inch by inch, but not fast enough. Right above me was the cord that led to the thermoelectric transducer pad that had been adhered to my chest. I was just close enough that I could reach it with my face, and at peril of being electrocuted, grasped it in my teeth and managed to rip it out of the monitor above. It started to beep incessantly.

I continued my struggle, trying to manoeuvre the bed far enough away that the needle would pull out of my vein. It had started bleeding profusely, but was still lodged in my flesh.

The monitor alarm brought another nurses' aide, and he rushed to my side, immediately putting pressure on my bleeding arm.

"Take it out," I hissed. "Take the IV out."

"Just relax, Mr. Holmes," he leaned up, pulling a fresh syringe full of Haldol from his pocket. "You'll feel better in a moment, I promise."

Then he saw the needle already hanging from the IV hub, and flashed a confused glance at me.

"Take it out," I said in a rigid voice. "Take the IV out of my arm or I _will_ die."

He hesitated, then did as I had instructed, pulling the needle out in one quick motion. Suddenly, Dr. Mathiasen appeared in the doorway.

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" He demanded, the fatherly facade gone up in smoke. He looked wild eyed.

I was feeling dumb and sleepy. "The needle," I said dully, looking at the hypodermic stuck in the hub. "Sodium thiopental. Don't know how much got into my blood stream, but I would...appreciate a little...medical assistance."

Everything was going out of focus. I was dimly aware of the paramedics on either side of me, of more needles being inserted into my flesh. My heart rate, which had been sluggish, was slowly increasing with the application of what I assumed to be atropine. I drifted in and out of consciousness.

It was not too much later when I fully regained consciousness. I was aware of Dr. Mathiasen sitting in the corner, massaging his temples with his thumbs.

"Doctor," I said, and he jumped a little.

"Oh, Jesus." he stood up and walked over to my bedside. "You're awake."

I leaned up, thankfully not restrained, and grasped the bed remote. I lifted the back rest so I was in a sitting position. The clock above the door read 18:42. Most of the day had passed.

"You should find Beth Larson," I said quietly. "She's in danger."

"She's dead," he said, and I saw that his eyes were red from exhaustion. "We found her in a supply closet; she cut her wrists."

"And the rest of the ward?"

"The quarantine was just lifted. Five of the other patients are here in the ICU, and two more staff members." He ran his hand through his hair. "It was botulinum toxin, like you said."

"Indeed." I reached over and pulled the IV needle out of my vein, and popped the oximetre off my finger. The doctor didn't try to stop me.

"How did you know?" he asked weakly. "You said this would happen."

"It's not the first time this man has tried to kill me, nor will it be the last," I said. "You're exhausted. You should sleep."

"I can't go home now." He paced a few steps. "There's too much to do here."

"Suit yourself," I said, swinging my feet over the side of the bed and standing up, shifting my weight experimentally. "I don't suppose the sofa is getting any more comfortable, but you aren't going to be much use to anyone if your judgement is affected by fatigue."

Mathiasen's face went blank. "How did you know I was sleeping on the sofa?"

"You're stiff on the left side from your arm hanging off the edge," I said with a resigned sigh. "And you haven't shaved for at least three or four days, which says you're too depressed to make the effort. Has she asked for a divorce yet?"

Slowly, astonished, he shook his head.

"Well, maybe there's hope for you," I said patting his shoulder genially. He frowned at me, deeply confused.

Giving no warning, I lunged at him, wrapping my arm around his neck and forcing him into a sleeper hold, and a very effective one. He made a small strangled noise as I dragged him into the corner and bore him down to the floor, kneeling behind him. He kicked out reflexively, his face turning bright red. After a few seconds, he slumped, quite unconscious.

I released him, rose, and turned off the lights. With some concerted effort, I was able to haul him up into my recently vacated bed. I relieved him of his lab coat, car keys and key card, then arranged the blankets so that they nearly covered his head. In the darkness, anyone casually glancing through the window would not recognise him as not being me.

I highly doubted anyone in this ward would know me by sight. Now was the time to test the theory. I put on the lab coat, pocketed the keys and key card, then made my way to the end of the ICU ward, where I knew the service elevator would be located. No one batted an eye. I key-carded into the elevator, and pressed the button for the underground staff parking level.

The car park was half-empty. Many of the employees unable to pass the quarantine had gone home, and plenty of the staff ended the day at 6pm. I pressed the doctor's keyfob, and a glossy black Saab chirped, lights flashing. It was parked, serendipitously, next to the large grey maintenance van.

I looked between the car and the van, thinking fast. I had maybe ten minutes before the alarm was raised and the hospital locked down. I went over the Saab and popped the boot, looking for something, anything heavy. There was a steel car jack tucked away in one corner. Perfect for my needs.

I got behind the wheel and tossed the jack into the passenger's seat, started the engine and drove the car up to the automated gate. I then shifted it into park, but kept the engine running as I key-carded the parking gate, which rose. Moving fast, I wedged the jack on the accelerator, causing the car engine to roar defiantly. Stepping out of the car but leaving the door open, I reached in and threw the car into drive, then quickly stepped back.

The vehicle shot out of the garage, barrelled across the street and slammed through barrier that separated the sidewalk from the Bristol Channel. It arced gracefully through the air and went nose-first into the channel with a towering splash. That would keep the police busy for a few hours, and buy me some time.

"Bloody 'ell," came a voice from behind me. It was the porter. He'd dropped his mop and cart and was staring at me in white-faced shock, mouth hanging open.

"You're just in time." I turned on him, and grinned.

He looked at me, aghast, then turned and sprinted for his van. I followed close on his heels, and ploughed into him bodily, pinning him against the van with a crunch. I applied the same sleeper hold I had used on the doctor. The porter was younger and in much better shape. He put up more of a fight, and I had a job subduing him, but still he went down in under a minute. I took his car keys and opened the back doors of the van. Lifting him under the armpits and I dragged him up into the van, then slammed the doors shut.

I got into the driver's seat and started the van. I used the doctor's keycard to raise the parking gate, then flipped it out the window into the Channel as I drove away. Distant sirens rose behind me, but I was already lost in east-bound traffic.

I reached into the glove compartment to see if there was a toll pass, but found instead a half-empty pack of cigarettes, which was even more welcome. Using the car's cigarette lighter, I lit one up and inhaled deeply, the smoke filling my lungs. It was deliciously relaxing, and I felt better than I had in days.

My passenger groaned from behind me. I glanced in the rear view mirror, and saw the man struggling to get to his knees. I quickly pulled over underneath an overpass, went into the back and hunched over him.

"I really am sorry about this, sir, but needs must," I said calmly. His eyes rolled up to look pathetically at me.

I gently applied pressure to restrict the blood flow in his neck, and he went right back under quite nicely. Then, working quickly, I stripped him of his grey coveralls. I dressed him in the lab coat and after checking the coast was clear, dragged him out of the back of the van.

Hoisting him in a fireman's lift, I walked him up the incline and tucked him back into the space beneath the motorway, where he would be kept company by a few pigeons and one passed-out vagrant.

I went back into the van and put the coveralls on over my scrubs. It wouldn't do for someone to notice a man in hospital blues driving a cleaner's van. I started the van and headed off to the M5, then exchanged on to M4, bound for London.

I got to Whitehall at half-past 8. I had made good time from Bristol, but most of the government officials and various other functionaries had left their offices for the day. However, at the Office of Civilian Affairs, a light on the third floor remained lit. It would burn late into the night.

I pulled into the car park and got out of the van. The first order of business was assessing the materials I had at hand. I looked through the various cleaning chemicals, and found what I was looking for: chlorine bleach, and acetone. I seized some rags from a plastic bag, and quickly mixed up some chloroform. I soaked a rag, wrapped it in a little piece of plastic I'd torn off the bag so it wouldn't bleed through the fabric of my coveralls and keep me from inhaling the fumes, and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I rummaged through a tool box I'd found under one of the shelves, and came up with a jack knife and some electrical tape.

I hopped out of the van, leaving the back doors ajar. Before turning to head into the office, I slashed the right tyre with the jack knife. Air hissed out of it, and the entire vehicle listed to the side. I pocketed the knife and went on my way.

I went into the office, and found a security agent relaxing behind the desk. He straightened as I approached the desk. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Keep it simple. "I could use a bit of a hand, actually. My back tyre's gone flat and I can't find the jack. I was going to call a lorry, but my mobile battery is dead. Would you mind letting me use your phone?"

"I've got a jack in my boot," the agent said with a friendly smile. "Have you got a spare tyre?"

I nodded vigorously. "That would be brilliant, actually, thanks very much."

I followed the agent out and waited by the van as he went for his car jack. He returned with it and set it next to the van. "Where's your spare?"

"In here," I said, jumping up into the back of the van. "Would you mind giving us a hand? Bitof an awkward angle."

"Sure," the agent's voice suddenly dropped to a suspicious pitch as he looked in the back of the van and realised there was no spare tyre. "Wait-"

I didn't wait. I struck, clapping his face with the chloroform soaked rag. He struggled and tried to hold his breath, but ended up taking a deep inhalation of the chemical. His legs went rubbery, going right out from under him. I caught him before he hit the pavement.

I glanced around. I had parked so that the rear of the van was face away from the street and not easily visible, but there was still the chance that a passing motorist had seen. I waited. Nothing. After a great deal of effort, I was able to haul the agent (Agent Whetter, by the badge) into the back of the van.

I stripped him of his cheap polyester suit, and was charitable enough to dress him in the grey coveralls. After binding him securely, I dressed in his clothing, took his keycard, wallet, keys and identification badge, which I pinned upside down on my chest. He had dark hair, but it was cropped short and in no way resembled my curls, but I was depending on the hope that I wouldn't run into anyone else.

Aside from his other personal articles, Agent Whetter was also possessed of very well-maintained Sig Sauer P227. I made certain it was loaded before holstering it in the shoulder holster I'd taken from him.

I left him bound with electrical tape and gagged in the back of the van, and went back into the Office of Civil Affairs, keyed into the elevator and took it to the third floor. There was a door at the end of the hall with a plaque that read "Secretary". I rapped my knuckles on the door, and opened it without waiting for an answer, closing it behind me. I kept my head ducked and showed the occupant my back as I shut the door.

"Yes?" came an irritable voice. "What do you want?"

"I wanted a word," I said as I turned, pulling the gun out in one smooth action.

Before Mycroft could react, I took three steps forward, whipped open the jack knife and speared his intercom with a crunch. It sparked, and the light died.

"Just a word?" he repeated apprehensively, staring at the impaled machine.

"A private word," I confirmed, taking the knife in one hand and flipping it shut before stowing it in my pocket. I took the chair opposite his and kept the gun trained on him. "Though, to be honest, I'm not precisely sure what it is I want to say. I'm puzzled, Mycroft."

"Really," he said, not taking his eyes off the gun in my hand. "How can I be of assistance?"

"I'm puzzled," I continued. "I am baffled that you took all the trouble to confine me in that murder trap when you could just as easily have served your purpose with a few well trained men. It would be quite easy for you to kill me; I'm not half as paranoid as you."

"I was trying to protect you," Mycroft hissed, his face starting to go red. "How can you think otherwise?"

"You all but set me up. You all but painted a target on my back, and Moriarty very happily took your invitation."

"James Moriarty is dead," he said, brows knit into a deep frown. "As is Irene Adler. There is no reason to think-"

I adjusted my aim and looked down the sights at a point directly between his eyes. "We both know that's not true, but I have proof."

"What proof?" he demanded, going a bit cross-eyed as his gaze tracked the muzzle of the gun. Then he looked at me. "What happened?"

I watched him for a long moment, trying to make sense of him. Mycroft ranked high among the subtle people in my acquaintance, but there was something in his incredulity that I was inclined to take at face value. If he was guilty, he'd be far more afraid.

"First, they tried tainting the ward's food with C. botulinum," I said, matter-of-fact. I holstered the pistol and rolled up my sleeve to show him the torn flesh in the crook of my arm where the needle had been ripped out. "Then one of the interns injected me with five CCs of sodium thiopental- is this starting to sound familiar, brother?"

Mycroft had gone white in the face. "My people assured me that they positively identified the bodies. The dental records match."

"Mycroft," I rose slowly. "Evidence can be faked. You're going to have to come to grips with the fact that Moriarty has a network as sophisticated as your own, and with far fewer scruples. I would not have expected you to take that for granted."

He rose with me, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "If that's true, then we have to work together. If you think you can keep your head on straight. You're going to need all the resources I can provide."

I nodded. "Yes. I will need your resources. But I'll be working alone. You've interfered enough in my investigation and I in yours; we're quits."

Slowly, he shook his head, gazing disbelievingly at me. "You know that's not possible, Sherlock."

I stepped around the desk and withdrew out the Sig again, pressing it right between his eyes. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist, Mycroft."

His lip trembled. Now he was truly afraid, and beads of perspiration had started to form on his forehead. "You're out of your mind."

"Hearing that has become quite wearisome, you know."

"Sherlock..."

"Oh, relax," I grinned, and pulled the gun away from his face, but still kept it aimed squarely at him. "Do you really think I'd shoot my own brother?"

He exhaled a breath, and glared at me. "Stop pointing that thing at me."

I flipped the barrel into my hand. "Better?"

"Much." He loosened his collar. "You can dispense with the theatrics."

"Fair enough." I tightened my grip on the Sig's barrel and whipped my arm forward, slamming the butt into his right temple. He fell to his knees, eyes rolling up to look at me with an expression of utter disbelief. He groaned and fell forward on to his face, a large dent in the side of his head filling with blood.

I rolled him over and checked his pupils. They were slightly dilated; a mild concussion, at least. I withdrew the rag from my pocket, and gave him a face full of chloroform until I was quite sure he was unconscious. Still, I didn't have much time. 

I went to work, running my hands over the walls, looking for hollow spaces or seams, anywhere a safe might be concealed. I passed my hands along the various book shelves, until I came to a dusty set of Encyclopaedia Britannica. The books' spines were tacky underneath the dust, covered with some kind of adhesive. Dust had been applied to the sticky surface in order to make the books appear as though they had remained untouched for years. I crouched down next to number 27: San Francisco - Southern, and pressed my hand against the book.

It depressed, then an entire panel popped out, spines glued to a piece of wood. I pulled it open, revealing the brushed steel safe with a number-pad inlaid flush to the door. I smiled. This would be easier than I'd thought.

Mycroft had clearly gotten comfortable, if he'd overlooked such an important detail as forgetting to upgrade his security system. I scrambled up to my feet and went around the desk. I pulled open the drawer and rummaged around for a moment, before coming up with what I was looking for: a pencil sharpener.

I went back to the safe and knelt down next to it. I shook the pencil sharpener, then popped it open. I was able to tap out a little pile of graphite dust into my hand. Using a tissue, I applied the dust to the number keys, and blew gently on them to get rid of the residue.

The graphite clung to the oil left by Mycroft's fingertips, showing the larger thumbprint of his right hand on the "4" button. Three less distinct prints, index or middle finger, showed on the "3", "5", and "8", directly through the middle of the pad. I considered for a moment. I knew that Mycroft could type on a number pad with either hand; we were both ambidextrous. I held up my hand to the key pad and typed the air, starting from the thumb on the four. My fingers naturally followed down the middle of the keypad.

I quickly typed in the sequence, and was rewarded as the safe door clicked and swung open. It was narrow, but deep. Inside were a set of file folders, a pair of keys, and a large black gym bag. I unzipped the bag, and discovered, to my delight, a collection of stacked 50 pound notes, totalling somewhere in the region of 500,000 quid.

In the folders were contained two files: _I__rene N. Adler_ and _James M. Moriarty_, both with full 8"x10" photographs and multi-paged reports, though the latter was much thinner than the former. In another file was a security report concerning the occupants of 221B Baker Street (Level **5: Active**) including two sets of identification sheets on colour glossy photo paper, with colour-copied images of mine and John's passport photos printed near the top. Looking down into my own passport photo, and the full set of my finger prints beneath that must have been painstakingly acquired (I had never been printed) I had to admit, Mycroft had done the thing properly. And in his own way, had proved immensely useful.

I closed the safe, replaced the false cover and stuffed the files into the gym bag, except for my ID sheet. I went back to the desk and searched the drawer again. I was able to come up with some white-out, but no scissors. I pulled out the jack-knife and set the sheet on the blotter, then as precisely I could manage, carved my passport photo out of the sheet. The slice marks would remain on the blotter, but with Mycroft out of commission, it would be unlikely that the investigation team would notice it.

I took Agent Whetter's wallet out of my pocket, and pulled his ID card out from under the clear plastic slot. Very, very carefully, I used the white-out to paste my own image over his ID photo. As gently as I could, I slid the card back under the plastic, then closed the wallet and put it back into my pocket. It wasn't perfect, but it would do in a pinch.

I crumpled the rest of the ID sheet and put it into the bag. Before leaving, I examined Mycroft one more time. He was still unconscious, but his breathing was steady. I left him behind me, walking briskly towards the parking lot, where Agent Whetter's black Mercedes was waiting for me.

It was nearing 10 o' clock when I arrived in Tottenham. Lestrade was waiting for me on the third storey balcony of his building, a cigarette clamped between his teeth and a deeply troubled expression on his face.

"I thought you quit," I said once I was upstairs, stepping out into the mist. He regarded me with a doleful expression.

"I did. Then I got your call."

"I'm out. Agent Whetter doesn't smoke, apparently."

"Agent Whetter." He looked me up and down. "That's the man..."

"With whose identity I have absconded. For the moment," I said as I accepted a cigarette from him, bending forward so he could light it for me."Until I can get safely out of the country."

"Where to?" he asked curiously, taking a long hard pull on his cigarette and illuminating his suspicious face. "Are you going to clue me in to anything that's going on here?"

"Possibly." I turned away and looked out at the street. It was starting to rain. "Are you going to help me?"

"Someone shut down my investigation," he said abruptly, leaning against the railing. "Some higher-up has seized the file and purged the database. Five years of work. I was told in no uncertain terms to take a holiday, or else risk censure."

"Mycroft." I smiled thinly. "He's done a thorough job, I'll give him that."

"Mycroft?"

"My brother. Government insider. He was the one responsible for putting me away. To keep me out of the way."

"Not because you're a cocaine addict?"

I glared at him. "I am not a cocaine addict."

Lestrade's mouth went thin and I could see he was waiting for an explanation.

I sighed. "Okay. I slipped. There was a time...well, it was a long time ago. But I didn't overdose on cocaine. I was poisoned."

His eyebrows shot up. "Poisoned?"

"When the Syndicate left the body of Lex Cavuto in my flat, they also planted a small bag of cocaine on him, which took before you could find it." I leaned on the railing next to him and blew smoke downwind. "Irene Adler anticipated me, and arranged that the powder be tainted with I can only assume to be amphetamines, benzodiazepines, who knows."

"But why, Sherlock?" Lestrade turned a look of fatherly concern on me, and while I found it patronising, it was a far cry from Mycroft's attempt at paternal airs. "Why did you need to take the cocaine in the first place? You had a case on the go, you had everything moving forward. Why do it, if boredom was the only thing keeping you at it?"

I took a deep breath, looked at the stub of the cigarette, and then flicked it away over the railing, turning my back on the street. He was more aware of my little habit than he'd been letting on. How to explain that moment of dire weakness? The insurmountable flash of total emptiness? How could I convey the way that Irene made me feel? The way that she was making me feel right now?

No. I couldn't tell Lestrade. There was only one person I could confess that to, I probably wouldn't anyway. Better to keep my own council. But I could give Lestrade the facts. He had put a lot of trust in me, a lot of faith, and I owed him that. And of course, I needed his help.

"I'm going to need another cigarette," I said slowly. "I'll explain on the way. I have some arrangements to make." 


	5. Crick and Watson

John Watson's Blog (locked) 

April 19

It was just past midnight. The lights were off, but a weak ray of street light trickled through the window, catching on the little tracks of rain water. The shadow cast over Molly Hooper's skin, negative lines in contained in the hard rectangle of light falling across her bare midriff.

"I could sleep for a week," I said hoarsely, propped up against the headboard of my bed.

"Am I boring you?" She smiled coquettishly and rolled over on to her stomach.

I ran my fingers along her spine, feeling the gentle slope of her back. "No. You've just shagged me silly, that's all."

Her smile broadened, and she leaned up to kiss me. Her lips were a little puffy from recent activities, and I nibbled on them, just a little. She giggled and pulled away. "That tickles."

"You like it," I said, pulling her to my side. She tucked her head against my neck, and traced a finger over the long diagonal scar that traversed the fleshy part of my shoulder across my collarbone. Her fingers moved around to my back where that was a mass of distorted flesh where the skin grafts had been applied.

"That must have been painful," she murmured.

I nodded and said nothing. No need to disgust her with the gruesome, bloody details, or bore her with reminiscences of the months of physical therapy and frustration. I just lay back and tried to absorb the feeling of her fingers against the graft, but I could hardly feel them through the scar tissue.

She licked her swollen lips, leaned over me and bent her head down, pressing a soft, wet kiss right in the centre of the entrance wound scar. Laid across my chest, she looked up at me, not coquettish now, but serious and full of intent. I slid my hand into her tousled hair and pulled her in for another kiss, this one deep and hard.

She straddled me, took me into her, and braced her hands on my shoulders. I rose up to meet her, wrapping my arms around her lower back and kissing her throat. She laughed playfully, a dark, low sound, and I tasted the vibration of it as it purred through her. I arched up, then rolled her over, taking over the pace. She hissed in breath and her large doe eyes glazed. Her lips parted and she shuddered once, twice as climax took her, making her rigid, then limp.

"John," she sighed quietly, and wrapped her legs around me. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it," I confided, then bit softly into her earlobe as I thrust into her in slow, hard movements. "Not for another hour at least."

She giggled again and I kissed her again, trying to taste the sound.

After two hours and a quick lukewarm shower, Molly was asleep in my arms and I was beginning to doze off myself. However, I snapped to attention when a dark silhouetted figure appeared in the doorway. My heart jumped into my throat as I recognised that tall form with its shock of curly dark hair, and that wry, ironic smile.

Sherlock Holmes stepped into the narrow beam of light that streamed through the window and smiled even more broadly. He was wearing the same cheap black polyester suit as the agents camped outside. He looked as though he wanted to laugh, but restrained himself.

"Well. I expected to find you in bed, but I didn't think you'd have company."

"Mmm." My companion mumbled in sleepy protest, then opened her eyes. "Sherlock?"

"Hello, Molly," he said genially, as though they were running into each other at the shop.

"Hi," she said in a tiny squeak, pulling the covers up to her neck. "We were wondering where you'd gone."

"John and I need to leave now," he said slowly, clearly still deeply amused. "It's best you come along with us. You're not safe here; none of us is."

"What do you mean?" she asked earnestly. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Just...take my word for it." The amusement evaporated as he turned to me, all business now. "Pack some clothes, not too much. Bring your passport, and your service pistol. Two minutes."

After some high speed scrambling and profuse apologising on my part, we assembled in the lane behind the house. Lestrade was waiting for us, his black BMW idling with the doors open.

He appeared to be chatting casually with one of the black-clad agents, who had accepted a cigarette from him. The agent turned a covert smile on Sherlock, who gave him a brisk nod.

"Ready to go, Agent Whetter?" he said in a friendly voice.

"We are, Agent Brindt. My orders are to bring these people into custody and brief them. Your assistance has been invaluable." Sherlock's tone was the absolute bureaucratic pitch, with just a little knowing camaraderie in it.

"Don't mention it, sir," said the agent, looking like a Boy Scout who had just done his good deed for the day.

Sherlock leaned forward conspiratorially. "Agent Brindt, I want you to continue to monitor the premises. It is of paramount importance that this residence continues to appear as though it is under surveillance. Is that clear?"

"That's affirmative, sir."

"Go on, then."

The agent saluted, turned his back on us and went to resume his post.

"Get in the car," Sherlock ordered. "We've been lucky so far, but they're bound to find Mycroft soon."

We obeyed his command, strapping in, a shared apprehensiveness rising between us as we looked at each other.

"What do you mean, Mycroft hasn't been found?" I asked, but Sherlock ignored me. Molly gave me a questioning look and I shrugged as if to say, "just go with it."

Lestrade pulled out of the lane and merged into traffic. As we joined the westbound traffic , Lestrade picked up the radio and pressed the button. He radioed for an ambulance at Mycroft's Whitehall office block, and replaced the handset.

He turned to Sherlock. "I have to lodge assault charges sooner or later, Sherlock. There's no way around it. Mycroft will wake up eventually."

Sherlock put his hands together and looked out into the driving rain. "Give me two hours. Is this going to be a problem?"

"What am I going to say?" Lestrade said weakly, and I sensed his immense trepidation. "How in the hell am I going to explain this? I'm not even supposed to be on the clock."

"Anonymous tip," Sherlock replied dryly. "What else? And don't worry your pretty little head about anything. Odds you'll get assassinated before anyone takes you to task for assisting a criminal escapee."

"Brilliant," Lestrade muttered.

I opened my mouth, but Molly beat me to it. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

"Hm?" Sherlock yawned, as though he had just remembered she was there. He ignored her question and turned to Lestrade. "You should take Miss Hooper into protective custody."

Lestrade glanced at her in the rear view mirror. "Do you really think...?"

He let the question hang in the air. Sherlock glanced at her over his shoulder, then turned his attention to the Detective Inspector. "Yes. And send uniforms to your ex's home. She and your daughter aren't safe either. Moriarty knows about you, Inspector."

Molly hissed in a sharp breath beside me, and I felt her hand tighten vice-like around mine. Without warning, Lestrade jerked the wheel, and we skidded over on to the shoulder. He put on the breaks, flipped on the hazard lights and turned to Sherlock.

"I asked you once what we were dealing with," he said in a deadly serious tone. "When it was just the Syndicate, that was fine, I knew what to expect. Irene Adler, I knew what to expect, or I thought I did. But now you tell me that James Moriarty, the man whose idea of a lark is wiring bombs to innocent people and blowing them into gobs, is operating somewhere in the background. I'm going against every instinct, against the law, against my training, because you think you know something. If I'm going to look the other while you continue to engage in criminal behaviour, then I'm going to need to know the reason why."

Sherlock looked at him, momentarily surprised, but then the cool veneer reasserted itself and he looked towards the road. "Drive. Drive, and I'll explain. We don't have time to linger here."

Slowly, reluctantly, Lestrade obeyed, and we were back heading towards Sussex.

"It was Mycroft who told me," Sherlock said abruptly, settling into his coat as though he were cold. I was struck in that moment by how thin he looked, and the dark circles under his eyes. Wherever he had been, it hadn't been kind to him. "When I regained consciousness in the ER, before he had me sectioned to a private hospital, he told me that Irene had enlisted Moriarty's help. I don't know if it was a recent appeal, or if the alliance goes back, but what is clear is that Irene Adler has become the de facto head of the United Nations Syndicate, and that Moriarty is her silent partner."

"But she's dead," Molly interrupted. "I saw it on the news. The fire in the Cayman Islands-"

"A blind," Sherlock said almost carelessly "A very elaborate misdirection meant to freeze the trail in Grand Cayman. It is my belief that Irene Adler arrived there via commercial airline, but left by some other means."

"How do you know?" I asked. I too had seen the report, and somewhere in my gut, I thought I could sense in Sherlock's tone a veiled feeling of something that might be called relief. "Do you have any evidence?"

I quailed a little under the withering look he shot at me. "Of course."

"Well?" Molly demanded. She was growing redder in the face by the moment, and I had the distinct impression she wanted to seize my friend and shake him until he made sense.

"The stamp." Sherlock said in his most sanctimonious pointing-out-the-obvious tone."The visa stamp on the passport they recovered. It's nearly flawless, the salt water hardly damaged it at all. Perfectly recognisable as a Cayman Island entry visa stamp."

"So?" Molly snarked.

"So, Molly, when have you ever seen a perfect visa stamp?" He smiled his thin patronising smile. "Visa stamps are used and reused every minute for years. The rubber cracks; the edges become worn. Aside from that, when the custom agent stamps a passport, it's a quick movement, not a careful application. The ink, too, is cheap, unlike the permanent ink shown on the recovered passport."

"So..." I was again confused. "What does that prove?"

Sherlock leaned his head back against the headrest, as though my questions were causing him physical pain. "We know for a fact that Irene Adler entered the country legally. Records confirm that much. The passport found on the victim is a fake. A replica, with the visa stamp carefully applied by an expert hand."

I felt that I was dimly starting to follow. "Why a fake passport? Unless..."

"Unless..."

"It was put there on purpose," Molly said in an awed voice, reaching the coveted "ah-ha" moment a step or two ahead of me. "To make someone think that it was her."

Sherlock looked at her in mild surprise, then turned a raised eyebrow at me. "In so many words. She may have left the island before or after the incident. She isn't there now."

"Where is she?" Lestrade asked. "You know, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "I think I do. But I'm not going to tell you. It's better you have as much deniability as possible. Exit here."

Lestrade pulled off the motorway, and at Sherlock's direction, turned down a service road that led through high, dense foliage until finally meeting with a great holly hedge that entirely blocked the way, except for an ingress that was manned by a rusted steel gate.

"Wait here." Sherlock said as he got out of the car, nudged open the gate and walked through the hedge, then called over his shoulder, "Molly, come with me."

Bewildered, she followed after him, and I after her, placing my hand lightly on her back. She was as tense as I felt, but of a different sort. I was energised, primed, and she was full of trepidation. Not without reason, either.

We followed Sherlock as he took long strides through a stable that had been positioned astride the dirt road, stalls looking at each other across the road, with a roof spanning above. There were four or five horses lodged there, and the smell of horse pervaded the air. Sherlock stopped next to one stall, pulled off his glove and reached out to stroke the nose of a large black head, with a blaze of white running up its forehead.

"Hello, Crick," he said, with more affection than I'd ever heard him use with a human. He fed the horse a bit of hay from a bale stack. "There's a good girl."

"What, no Watson?" I asked dryly.

"Oh, I have one of those, too," he replied, completely without irony. Then he turned away from the animal, and looked to Molly. "Molly. Pay attention to what I have to say to you."

"I'm not a child, Sherlock," she growled. "You don't have to-"

"Pay attention to me because your life may depend on it," he continued, utterly serious. Her angry expression dropped. A hint of fear showed there, but she was working hard at being brave.

"Okay."

"Give me your phone."

She frowned, but acquiesced, pulling out her mobile phone and putting it in his hand. It was a flip model. He held it in his hand, appearing to test the weight of it, then to my amazement, snapped it in half.

"Hey!" Molly glared at him, stepping forward. "What was that for?"

He ignored her, tossed the broken remains of the mobile into an empty stall, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a card. He held it out to her, and she took it with a shaking hand.

"Tell Lestrade to drive you somewhere that he decides. Go to a phone booth and dial this number. When the government agents arrive, go with them. They'll convey you to a safe house."

Molly held the card, but didn't look at it. She stared at Sherlock, her face drawn. "You really think he wants to kill me."

"If there's even the slightest chance that he thinks it'll make me come running, he will," Sherlock replied simply, without the faintest hint of emotion.

"Would you?" Molly wanted to know, taking a step closer. But Sherlock didn't answer. He stopped to give his horse a pat on the neck, turned away and began to amble down the road. He paused half way, and lit a cigarette, something I was completely unaccustomed to seeing him do.

I was suddenly struck by the realisation that was, in his own way, showing some kind of sensitivity. He himself had no real talent at softening the truth, or assuaging fears. He could only understand practical action, leaving the human-feeling part to me. Or maybe he just wanted a smoke.

I turned to Molly and took her hands. She was looking after Sherlock, but looked at me, eyes wide with anxiety.

"John. I'm afraid. I mean, I was before, but now..." she trailed off. She didn't need to finish.

I kissed her hands. "Don't be afraid. It's us he'll be chasing."

"Do you trust him?" she nodded towards Sherlock.

I watched him for a moment, watched as he held the cigarette tight between his lips, smoke curling out his nostrils to be sucked away into the darkness. He seemed to be very interested in a tall spruce tree, watching swaying crown, the tossing boughs. He looked kind of dreamy. Removed, but not at all a man who was afraid. But then, I'd only seen him afraid once, and it wasn't for himself.

"Yes," I said quietly. "With my life."

She nodded. "Then that's enough. Do you know where you'll go?"

I shook my head. "Even if I did, I couldn't tell you."

"Kiss me," she said in a voice just above a whisper.

I did, kissing her lips, kissing away the tiny tear that was forming in the corner of her eye. I thumbed her cheekbone, and looked down into her pale face. "Don't worry."

"I can't stop worrying," she sniffed, then quickly kissed me again. "I just found you."

"Molly. If you need to..." I hesitated.

She wiped her face on her sleeve. "Yes?"

"If someone tries to hurt you, don't be afraid to hurt them back."

She smiled. "Believe me, I won't be."

Sherlock had finished his cigarette. I could see him, quarter-turned towards me, just enough to not see us, but enough that I could see his impatient expression.

I kissed Molly again, this time for longer, then gently disengaged her from me. "Go. Now. Be safe."

"Take care." She didn't try to draw it out, but jogged through the stable back to the hole in the hedge where Lestrade was waiting. She raised her hand to me, a drawn, sad smile on her face, then turned and ducked through the hedge. As I heard the car starting, I turned my back, and followed Sherlock down the dirt road.

As we made our way through the rain, a building rose into view. It was a towering half-timbered house, in the Tudor style. It had been added on to and expanded, but even an untrained eye could perceive that the main part of the house was original, dating back to the Middle Ages.

"Where are we?" I asked, on the off chance that Sherlock might offer some kind of explanation. He was being unusually reticent.

"Holly House. This is Holly Park."

"Yes, but-"

"The Holmes' ancestral seat," he said, and there was a note of disdain in his voice. "Mother is away in Vienna until the winter, so it's empty except for the caretaker."

"What are we doing here?" I was tired of asking questions. I wished he'd just explain. He wasn't usually so cheap with the facts.

"Later," he said, turning towards a large stand alone garage, constructed out of galvanised steel. It was rather larger than the average garage, and its modernity was a stark contrast to the medieval structure next to it.

"Sherlock."

"Quiet," he hissed. "Once we're in the air."

"In the..." I trailed off and fell silent at a murderous look from him.

He bent down and, pulling some keys from his pocket, unlocked the padlock that held the garage door fixed to a bolt in the ground. Very slowly, he lifted the door, which rolled back silently on well-greased rails.

As I peered inside, Sherlock's meaning suddenly became clear. A light-class helicopter (I say light, but the thing was actually quite large) was resting its skids on a wheeled platform. Sherlock seized a chain that was attached to one corner, and tossed the other to me. Together, we hauled it out into the rain.

Sherlock unlocked the pilot side. He pulled it open and climbed in to the pilot seat, leaning over to push the door open for me. I scrambled into the chopper, the blades beginning to rotate over my head. Sherlock slung a headset around his neck and passed one to me.

"No pre-flight checklist?" I said as I put it on, half-joking.

His voice crackled through the earphones. "No time. Look."

I followed Sherlock's gaze out the window. A small lorry was speeding towards us, driven by a man who had clearly just been roused from sleep, clad in pyjamas and tousle-haired. He got out of the car and waved his arms at us, bellowing. I couldn't hear what he was shouting over the noise of the rotors, but I got the gist.

Sherlock gave him a mocking little wave, then without warning, jerked the collective lever, and we leaped into the air. He pressed down on the cyclic control and we pitched forward at a steep angle. The caretaker threw himself on the ground as the skids barely missed the top of the lorry. Then we were up, rising above the high hedge, into the dark sky.

There was something disturbing about the expression on Sherlock's face. His teeth were bared in a manic grin. I put my hand on his shoulder. "What the hell was that?"

"Just having a bit of fun," he said, leaning back into his seat and relaxing a fraction. "Don't be such a killjoy."

"You're out of your mind. You could have killed him with that little stunt."

He glanced at me, a little offended. "I am not out of my mind."

I watched him for a moment, then looked at the interior of the helicopter. I knew the basic flight controls, having spent rather a lot of time in Army choppers. Still, the myriad of digital controls might have been hieroglyphics for all the sense I could make out of them. But it made sense to Sherlock, who was piloting us determinedly in one direction, though he seemed to me to be flying a little low. Under the radar, perhaps.

"Where did you get this thing?" I asked, putting my hand on the plastic facing. "And where did you learn to fly a helicopter?"

"It's Mycroft's," he said shortly. "And I read the manual."

"You're joking."

"On which point?"

"Are you saying you've never flown before?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "Relax. I've flown this at least a dozen times, and only crashed once."

"Oh, great," I said, letting my head fall back against the headrest. "So you're basically saying that there's a one-in-twelve chance that you'll crash it again."

"I was fifteen and it was the first time I tried flying it. Didn't even manage to get out of the park." A wistful smile crossed his face. "Mycroft was apoplectic."

A suspicion that had been lurking in the back of my mind was beginning to surface. "Sherlock...does Mycroft know you have his helicopter?"

"I should imagine not," he said calmly. "I doubt he's in any fit state to hear about it yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I pistol whipped him and knocked him out. He has a mild concussion, at the very least."

I was silent. The casualness of this statement was throwing me entirely. I was sitting in a hijacked helicopter, speeding towards people who wanted to kill me, with a man who had beaten his own sibling into unconsciousness. I really had no idea what to say.

"He locked me up," Sherlock said, suddenly vitriolic. "He had me put into an induced coma, put me away in some facility in Bristol, where I was absolutely trapped and vulnerable. Moriarty tried to have me killed twice and the second time he almost succeeded. There is no way Mycroft could have failed to foresee that."

"People make mistakes," I said, trying to placate him, but I immediately knew by the expression on his face that it was pointless.

"Not Mycroft. He's many things, but careless isn't one of them."

"Maybe Moriarty's gotten into his network. Maybe he thought he had better security around you. He doesn't seem to be relying on covert tactics these days. Those government blokes of his don't seem to be too quick."

"You may be right," Sherlock admitted. "But the truth is, he knew about Moriarty and Irene long before this happened."

I was instantly confused, but the bitterness in his tone was setting off alarm bells. "What do you mean, Moriarty and Irene? Something besides them working together?"

"In the black bag, there's a file."

I reached back and grabbed the black gym bag, quickly unzipping it. Inside was a pile of cash, more than I'd ever seen in my life. "Sherlock..."

"Later." Sherlock said again. "Irene's file."

I unearthed a manila file from under the stacks of 20- and 50 pound notes, and let it fall open in my lap.

On top of the typed documents was a large glossy black and white photograph, very obviously taken from a security camera. It depicted two individuals familiar to me: Irene Adler, and James Moriarty, seated together at some cafe or bistro. Irene appeared to be laughing at something Moriarty had said, while he himself was smiling, though the smile didn't reach his eyes, which were turned towards the camera and as cold as ever. It was a disturbing image, the intimacy masked over by the knowledge of what the man depicted was capable of.

"She tainted the cocaine that almost killed me," Sherlock said in an offhand way. "She arranged Caleb Marcel's death, maybe even pulled the trigger herself. Together, they have effected a coup d'état within the Syndicate."

"That," I said, swallowing involuntarily. "Is a very unsettling thought."

"It is. Which is why we need to catch them." Sherlock smiled, and I caught a glimpse of sparkle in his eye.

"If they've just taken over the Syndicate, wouldn't they consolidate their power in London?"

He considered. "London's dangerous for them right now, especially Irene. The Marcel family still has a great deal of pull, but their resources will drain away in the ensuing contest for control when the various gangs start to move in on each other. They won't go to London."

"Where are we going?" I looked out the window, down into a cluster of islands I could only venture to guess were the Hebrides. Dawn was slow in coming as steel grey clouds still darkened the horizon.

"Tiree."

"They're going to be on Tiree?"

Sherlock flashed a grin at me, and I resisted the urge to give him a shove. He pressed a button on the radio and twisted a knob until he found the right frequency.

"Tiree, this is Eurocopter, Tango-Romeo-One-Seven-One, requesting permission to land."

The tower, or possibly the radar station, as I saw no tower below us, responded. It was a woman's voice with thick Hebridean accent. "You're clear to land, Eurocopter."

We descended over a large island mass, slowly making our way down to a very small air strip that was bordered by grass so green that it seemed almost electric against the stormy sky. Below us, parked on the tarmac, was a small business jet of some kind, done up in silver livery, with a logo in navy blue on the tail.

As we touched down, I saw it was a large eye, comprised of a set of very simple geometric shapes. The hatch was open, and a set of stairs led down to the tarmac. Idling next to them was a man, medium in build, but wearing an excellently tailored navy suit under the black trench coat draped around his shoulders. It was difficult to see his face under his fedora, but I perceived he was smoking a long, thin cigar.

Sherlock unbuckled and tossed off his headset, climbing out of the chopper before the blades had stopped rotating. He reached in and grabbed the bag he'd brought, taking long strides over to the figure, me close on his heels.

Sherlock held a hand out, and the stranger gripped it. "Virgil. Good to see you."

"Sherlock Holmes. You're all grown up." He was American, his accent regional to New York if my untrained ear served. Now that I was closer, I could see that he was pale, but with very dark eyebrows, and a well-tended moustache and goatee. He looked rather like a man of Latino descent who had been out of the sun for a decade. He was obviously very refined, but there was something about his flat black eyes that told me he was also a dangerous person to cross.

The smile on his face was spare, and fleeting. "Who's your friend?"

"Virgil, Dr. John Watson, my friend and colleague. John, this is Virgil Leverton. He works for Pinkerton Investigations."

I shook his hand. It was delicate-looking and manicured, but his grip was surprisingly strong. He nodded at me, and released my hand, tossing his cigar into a puddle where it sizzled out, then turned towards the jet. "Let's go. It's cold as balls out here."

I looked at Sherlock, who shrugged and followed Leverton up the steps into the warm interior of the aircraft. It was some kind of late model Lear or Gulfsteam, and very well appointed, with dark leather rotating office chairs and walnut burl finishing. There was a mini-bar laid along one side of the jet, with a long couch opposite it, and fixed on the forward bulkhead was a sizable flat screen television.

Leverton pulled off his hat and went up the front of the jet, pulling open the door to the cockpit. He had a few words with the pilots, then closed the door and took a seat, buckling his seatbelt. Following his lead, we did the same. There was a mechanical buzzing noise as the ladder retracted, the hatch folding up into the aircraft. The whole thing began to vibrate as we began to taxi down to the small runway.

"When we level out, there's food and booze in the mini-bar," Leverton said as he picked up a remote and turned towards the television. "Saw something interesting on the news."

He turned the TV on, and rewound the DVR a few minutes, then let it play. It was BBC News, a midnight re-broadcast.

"- agent was discovered tied up in the back of a service van. There have been no comments from the Office of Civil Affairs as yet, except to say that Mr. Holmes was moved to Charing Cross hospital just a short while ago. Police say they received an anonymous tip, and are encouraging anyone with information about the attack on the Secretary to contact Scotland Yard. The Yard itself has refused to comment until the investigation has moved forward."

We were all quiet as the jet rumbled down the tarmac. The engines roared into life, and we took off in short order, making a rapid ascent.

"I hit him harder than I thought," Sherlock said abruptly, though devoid of concern.

"I don't understand why you hit him at all," Leverton said as he turned his chair back to face us, just a hint of amusement under the cold mask.

Sherlock cocked his head. "Do you have siblings?"

Leverton unbuckled his seat belt, stripped off his coat and expertly navigated the steep incline of the jet so he could hang it up in a recessed closet. He beckoned to Sherlock, who followed suit, shucking off his beloved tweed coat and handing it off.

Leverton fingered the material for a moment. "Very nice. Where did you get it?"

"It's custom. Fashion designer's ten year old daughter went missing in Dublin. A prolific child-slavery trader kidnapped her as she was waiting for the school bus. I found her alive in his basement, relatively unharmed. Nasty case. I had to pretend to be a potential client in order to get close to the girl and I think I frightened her. Her mother wasn't happy about the method, even if she was thrilled about the result."

"So she made you a coat?" Leverton held it up in one hand, looking it over.

Sherlock smiled his ironic smile. "She said I ought to be less cold."

Leverton didn't smile, but nodded, very carefully hanging the coat up before shutting the closet door. He went back to his seat.

"So," he said in a businesslike tone. "I'm harbouring criminals. Or at least, a criminal and his accomplice, which isn't a whole lot better. Did you just need a ride, or is there something in it for me?"

"I expect no public service from a corporate investigator," said Sherlock, a thin smile playing around his mouth. "Aside from fulfilling the debt you owe me, I do in fact have something for you."

"Go on," said Leverton, leaning forward.

"I'm going after the Syndicate."

"Are you now." Leverton was definitely interested now. "That begs one question."

"That being?"

"Are you suicidal?"

Sherlock laughed. "Maybe, given the number of times they've tried to kill me."

"I remember," Leverton said. The aeroplane had levelled out, and he went over to the mini-bar and poured three glasses of water, which he passed off to us. "I recollect that the assassin sent after you during the last Marcel trial still hasn't been found."

"Best thing for him," Sherlock said, then gulped down some water. "Or so my brother thought. I was lucky to catch him in such a punitive mood."

"Until he punishes you."

"Quite."

"So you intend to go after gangs directly?"

"Not at all. I intend to go after Irene Adler."

"Intriguing notion." Leverton examined the bottom of his glass. "Irene Adler is dead."

"She's presumed dead. In fact, she's making a bid for control of the Syndicate. You heard about Caleb Marcel's murder."

"Of course."

"That was her."

Leverton's eyes locked on Sherlock. "She hit her boss?"

"Exactly."

Leverton digested this information. "The North American branch has no sweet feelings for the Caleb Marcel, but there are connections . They'll fall behind his son, Jacques. He's been taking graft for years."

"The Marcels won't be in control much longer," Sherlock said quickly. "They don't stand a chance, not when every gun-toting small-time punk with big-time aspirations is itching to take a bite out of them. I give it a few months before they're all dead, not least because they'll be killing each other."

"You theorise," Leverton began, aiming at Sherlock his index finger from the hand that held the glass. "That Irene Adler has returned to New York in order to consolidate capital and manpower, so that she can go back to London, mop up the survivors and take control of the field."

"It's isn't a theory, it's a fact. She will return to Britain with a host of criminal elements at her beck and call, and enough cash to buy off any prospective enemies, while making gruesome examples of any who resist. Simple strategy, but highly effective."

"All by herself?"

Sherlock rose from his chair, went over to the mini-bar and rifled through it, pulling out muffins and crisps. He rose and returned to his chair with a blueberry muffin in hand.

"I haven't eaten properly for days," he said, apparently feeling compelled to explain.

"You didn't answer my question."

"You wouldn't have heard of him."

"Try me."

"Man by the name of Moriarty. James Moriarty."

"You're right, I haven't heard of him."

"It's not a name that people say, but he can be tracked, if you know where to look for him." Sherlock took a massive bite out of the muffin and washed it down with more water. "He prefers to keep his distance, but for enough money, one can purchase his particular services."

"Services in what particular?"

"The Sniper Bombings a few months ago. You remember?" Sherlock opened the gym bag and passed a file to Leverton, taking care to conceal the hundreds of thousands of pounds inside.

Slowly, Leverton nodded. He opened the file, which was very thin, and began to read. It only took him a few minutes, as there couldn't have been much information there. He set it down on the ledge next to him. "He's a glorified criminal for hire."

"He's more like a bureaucrat of crime, excepting the fact that he deeply enjoys his work." Sherlock leaned back, examining an apple he had pulled out. He buffed it against his shirt and turned his attention back to our host, who was looking troubled. "His network is, I believe, unrivalled, and virtually silent. No one who works for him knows that they're acting at his behest, and he takes care to keep it that way. I think he's been working the Syndicate for a long time. You know them. They're dangerous, but not clever."

"Irene Adler is," he said thoughtfully. "You think she's been pulling the strings in London the entire time."

"So I've been given to understand."

"Really," said Leverton sceptically. "By whom?"

"By Irene herself. Oh, she didn't confess to killing Marcel, but she hated him. She hated him very much. They were lovers, and nothing breeds hate so much as love."

"Hm." Leverton turned his attention to me. "And how are you involved in all of this, Dr. Watson?"

I shrugged. "I'm just here to help."

"It is some deep dangerous water we're going into, friend," Leverton said blankly, and I was suddenly struck by the strange feeling that he was wondering what I might be made of under my ratty old cardigan. It was discomforting. "Are you sure you're ready to get shot at?"

I met his gaze and stared directly into those black eyes without blinking. "Getting shot at was my job description, until recently."

"Ah," Leverton said, and his eyes warmed a degree. "Left scars?"

"Virgil." There was warning in Sherlock's voice.

"I do have scars," I said in a hard voice. "I've stitched up wounds the size of your fist, and created a few, too."

"Cute," he said, with a seemingly genuine smile, which threw me entirely. He looked away, resumed his brisk manner and turned to Sherlock. "I'll do what I can. Most of my contacts are probably underground or dead by now anyway, but I know a few people from the old days that might still be operating. I can't house you, though. I have to protect my company, which becomes a problem if I'm seen to be harbouring wanted criminals."

"Naturally," Sherlock said calmly. "There's a diplomatic suite for visiting British officials who want to stay under the radar, and I have the key. Do you think you could supply a car to get us there without attracting any attention? I could be on the no-fly lists by the time we get in, it's better we don't go through customs."

Leverton nodded. "That can be arranged."

"Excellent." Sherlock crossed himself up in his chair, tucking his legs under him, and folded his hands. He went vacant almost immediately, and I recognised it as the signal to leave him alone. Leverton appeared to have intuited the same conclusion, and turned to me, offering me the files.

I took them, and looked back at him. "Is there somewhere I could lie down? It's just...well, I've been awake..."

He nodded. "In the back, there's a couch that folds out. We've got another four hours before we make JFK."

"Thank you," I said and got up, moving aft. There was an accordion folded partition recessed in the bulkhead, which I pulled shut. I lay back on the couch without bothering to unfold it, and opened the Moriarty file.

It was brief, numbering only a few pages, and with black censor marks throughout.

_James Cormac Moriarty_  
><em>Born November 20th, 1976<em>

_Current official records on James Moriarty are limited to employment history from _Óglaigh na hÉireann, _as an instructor for the _Combat Service Support College_. His tenure was very brief, however, and _censored_ has been given to understand he acted in a civilian capacity, holding no rank or office. However, he appears to have extensive knowledge in ordnance and intelligence gathering, operating under several different names in various parts of Ireland. It is believed, though unconfirmed, that he spent some of his formative years working as a covert agent for the _IRA_, and made his first criminal contacts through Irish criminal syndicates. Those contacts are believed to extend across the water to North America._

_His family connections are tenuous at best. Both parents are believed to be deceased, and anecdotal evidence suggests that Moriarty was raised in part by his uncle-in-law, a trawler captain by the name of Angus Powers , but left home shortly after his fourteenth birthday, ostensibly to live with another distant relation. However, he disappears entirely from view during this time, presumably becoming deeper embedded in with subversive Irish groups._

_It is worth noting that his departure was timed a month after the death of his cousin, Carl Powers, who drowned during a swimming competition. At the time, no connection was made, but new evidence provided by _censored_ suggests that Moriarty was responsible for his cousin's death, using an elaborate biochemical attack. The use of _C. Botulinum_ as a bioweapon may have occurred to him through research of biochemical terror methods, or he may have learned about it from a visiting delegation of _Yakuza _technicians, who have been known to utilise it. In any case, all evidence points to James Moriarty being a criminal prodigy, having both the means and the motivation to commit murder by the age of 13. _

_His transition from Irish covert terrorist to covert terrorist for hire is not well documented. It is possible he was placed within the _Óglaigh na hÉireann_ in an effort to recruit students to the terrorist cause, but given the dwindling influence of the terrorist factions in modern Ireland, he may have deemed it time to jump ship and create a syndicate of his own. By this time, he would have accumulated allies and contacts across the world, with known affiliations in Europe, Asia, and the Americas._

_To date, he has never been officially or directly implicated in any criminal activity, though it is believed he is responsible for the recent spate of bombings and _C. botulinum _poisonings across London. It has also become clear that Irene Adler, the shadow power behind the international narcotics syndicate _United Nations Syndicate, _appears to have enlisted his help to effect a _coup d'état _against her employer and former lover, narcotics kingpin Caleb Marcel. The only real evidence supporting this claim is that of a security photograph in which both Adler and Moriarty appear, though only through his allowance, as he is extremely careful about being caught on camera. In the enclosed print, he is visibly intimate with his companion, the left side of his face turned towards the camera, and his eyes directly on the lens. If there has been damage from his recent encounter with _censored_, it is not visible here._

_It is now believed that Adler and Moriarty are in collusion and have withdrawn to the Grand Caymans, with the intention of returning to London to consolidate their power after the battling rival gangs exhausted their materiel and personnel._

A post-script had been added in a tight copperplate hand:

_Re: Irene Adler and James Moriarty believed to have been tentatively identified as the burned corpses recovered from the wreckage of schooner _Wanda June _just off the coast of Grand Cayman. The search for dental records is ongoing, as J.M. has never been registered with NHS. I.A. is registered with her employer's dental plan, but does not appear to have needed dental x-rays during her five years employed with the London division. The Grand Cayman investigation so far has been inconclusive, though as both are British citizens, it has been arranged for the bodies to be removed to London for a more thorough post-mortem._

I sat back with the file on my chest for a long moment. Suddenly I didn't feel like sleeping at all. It wasn't that I felt the buzz that came on when we were on the hunt, but more the deep foreboding that something bad was going to happen. It was impossible to overestimate Moriarty's sophistication, and knowing that there was every chance he might try to hurt Molly Hooper made me feel physically ill. I felt for an instant as though I was running in the wrong direction, and that I should've stayed to protect her.

But that was silly. It wouldn't make any real difference if I was there or not, because he'd kill me all the same, or perhaps he'd kill her, torture her, and make me watch. That was Jim's idea of a good time.

I resolved, without even thinking about it, to kill him if presented with the opportunity. Sherlock would have no trouble at all fabricating any manner of justifiable circumstances for me, because it wouldn't matter if he was unarmed and begging for mercy, I'd shoot him anyway. With his resources, containing him would be next to impossible. Better to just end him.

I felt a wave of cruel pleasure at the thought, and then a more sobering one took its place. What would Sherlock say to such a notion? Would he approve? Would he lament the loss of a cherished rival? Or would he just roll his eyes and tell me not to let my emotions run away with me?

I breathed slowly, and let myself relax. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. Sherlock had more or less surrendered Molly into Mycroft's protection, and even without his being present to direct it, Mycroft too had a powerful network. I was being paranoid. She'd be fine.

I slept uneasily for the next three hours, coming to when the aircraft began to descend. Working to keep my balance, I navigated my way back to my seat. Sherlock had fallen asleep with his head against the window, his exhaustion finally catch up with him. Virgil Leverton was leaning back with his fingers laced across his stomach. I would've thought him asleep except that his eyes were open, if only just.

"How did you and Sherlock meet?" I asked in a low voice.

"2001," Leverton said. "This was before 9/11. I was working for the European division of the company when our business jet was hijacked from Heathrow by a Russian drug cartel. We never anticipated getting it back, but then this-" he motioned to my sleeping friend, "-scrawny twenty-something kid shows up, says he can get us our plane back if we'll cover expenses. I told him to go home to mother. He asked me if I'd been fired from the NYPD or if I'd resigned. It was a toss-up between punching him out and hearing what he had to say."

"He got your plane back?"

"No," Sherlock said without opening his eyes, making me jump. "I found the Lear after the Russians crashed it, but they had this nice new Gulfstream V on standby with pilot already in the cockpit. I had an AK-47, he had an aeroplane...we came to an agreement."

"You hijacked an aeroplane," I said unnecessarily, somewhat astonished. "How old were you?"

Sherlock turned and stretched, his expression languid and relaxed. "25. It was before hijacking became so...trendy."

"We had to reupholster the whole thing." said Leverton, running his hand along the walnut burl. "Get the blood stains out, and patch up the bullet holes. "

I looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. He yawned.

"Rival gangs. The wrong people at the wrong time...for them, at least. Worked out rather well for my purposes."

Leverton gazed out the window as the ground quickly rose to meet us. We taxied towards the hangar that the agency rented. He unbuckled and stood up, retrieving the coats from the closet. He passed them back to us, and we all stood and stretched. There came the mechanical buzz again as the hatch opened and the stairs lowered to the tarmac. We grabbed our luggage and filed out into the cold. It wasn't raining, but the sky was dominated by a shelf of gunmetal cloud.

We followed Leverton to a glossy black limousine and allowed the chauffeur to stow our bags in the boot before courteously holding the back door open for us. Sherlock and I slid on to plush leather seats, Leverton taking the seat across from us. Without further ado, the driver started the car, turned and trundled towards a gate that bordered the edge of the airport.

The guard waved us through with no problem, and I felt myself breathe a sigh of relief as we merged on to Van Wyck Expressway.

We watched the passing scenery in silence, the tall old paint-peeling houses speeding by, the gated basketball courts, each populated by an army of children and teenagers playing pick-up football and other street sports. I turned to Leverton."You were with the NYPD?"

Leverton nodded. "Until my partner was killed. We were both narcotics, undercover, working the Syndicate. This is back when they were just starting to expand their business, laundering money for the gangs in London, and supplying powder to the locals. That's still the main connection between all of the various arms, money laundering."

"How was he killed, if I may ask?"

Leverton's face became even harder to read. "He was shot in the head. .50 BMG straight between the eyes."

"A sniper?" I asked. Then I glanced at Sherlock, whose face was impassive, but I was able to guess what he was thinking.

"Yes. Never caught the man that did it," Leverton said.

"Not yet," Sherlock said.

Leverton cocked his head, and there was a flicker in his eyes. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I don't," Sherlock said without missing a beat. "I imagine after that, the force encouraged you to seek employment elsewhere."

Leverton nodded. "They retired me, saying I'd gotten in too deep. Became too...involved."

"Involved how?" I wondered out loud, then wondered if I'd gone too far.

"After my partner was shot, the line between legal and criminal started to blur. My priorities shifted."

"How long did you work together?"

"Three years."

"What happened afterwards?"

But Leverton looked away. He was done answering questions, apparently. There was still something in his eyes, something underneath all of the chilliness, something that burned.

Sherlock turned his head and fixed him with an intent expression. "You know I can deliver. Will you help?"

Leverton stared at him, and then nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes."

"I get Moriarty and Adler."

"Understood."

There was a collective exhalation, as if something had been cleansed from the close atmosphere. We crossed the Queensboro Bridge, a massive cage of steel trestles, and continued into Manhattan.

"Where am I dropping you?" Leverton asked as we idled at a traffic light, surrounded by a sea of yellow taxis.

"126 Warren Street."

We joined a current of traffic headed downtown, through a corridor of towering buildings, architectural behemoths dating back to pre-Victorian, nestled among the steel and glass towers from the 20th and 21st century. The effect was certainly eclectic. I hadn't been in Manhattan for over ten years, and even then, it was for a combat physician conference at the United Nations building, so I hadn't had much of a chance to play the tourist.

As we got closer to our destination, the corridor opened up, and I could see the water, bordered by some well-tended green space. A number of people walked the promenade, clearly grateful that despite the chill, it wasn't raining.

We turned into an underground car park, and pulled to a stop. Leverton cracked his knuckles, and leaned forward, nodding towards the bag. "I'm assuming you want me to dispose of that for you."

"We are of one mind," Sherlock said.

Leverton pulled a silver Mastercard out of his inside pocket, and handed it Sherlock. "They got the spelling right?"

He checked the card face, nodded, and slipped it into his wallet. "How much?"

"$700,000. Don't spend it all at once."

"Don't worry."

"And Sherlock." Leverton gave him a pointed look. "I have a large discretionary budget, but be careful what you purchase."

"Understood," Sherlock waited as the driver came around to open the door. "Anything else?"

Leverton examined his nails, buffed them against his jacket, then regarded us languidly. "There's a place uptown called Georgette's. Meet me there, about six. Dress nice."

We assented, said our goodbyes, and got out of the car.

The elevator took us up to the sixty-fifth floor. A row of suites faced us, but Sherlock seemed to know which direction he was going, and immediately turned left. He went all the way down to the end of the hall, which was faced with a massive window. Glancing outside, I immediately felt a little dizzy. It felt like we were miles up. Through the gaps in the other buildings, I could see steel gray water. I was even able to catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, though it was small and distant.

Sherlock turned to suite# 6520. He unlocked it, and we went inside, shutting the door behind us. There was, I noticed, another door, but this one made of steel mesh. There was a speaker pad set flush in the wall to the left. Sherlock fished out his mobile phone and dialled a number. I could just hear the sound of it ringing out, and then the message machine.

"Hello, this is-" Sherlock pressed the speaker phone button and held the phone up to the speaker pad."-Mycroft Holmes-" he hit the end key. The door slid sideways into a recess in the wall.

"Come on," Sherlock said, hauling his bags with him and tossing them into the middle of the floor.

The suite was spacious, all of the furniture covered with white sheets. The floor was hard wood, and there were no blinds; the windows were one-way tinted, as evidenced by the dark filtered effect on the outside surroundings. Sherlock dropped his bags and proceeded to pull the sheets up, revealing simple black furnishing that were slightly aged. He bundled the sheets and tossed them in a corner. A simple Ikea-type shelf held an older model CRT television, and the appliances in the kitchen were fifteen years old at least.

He pointed me into one of the two bedrooms which had its own en suite washroom, and a large but simple bed. The compulsive military man in me could not resist the urge to unpack and stow everything away in the closet before making my way into the en suite.

The shower felt marvellous, as though I was stripping off a decade of dirt and sweat. I brushed my teeth in the shower, and after changing into a fresh set of clothes, I felt far better than I had for the past eight hours.

I ambled out to find Sherlock, who had apparently made it half-way. He was in his blue dressing gown, sitting on the floor, his hair dripping and his laptop on his knees.

"You might as well get some sleep," he said, his fingers clicking against the keyboard as he typed with freakish speed. "It could be a long night."

"I slept on the plane," I said, unable to suppress a yawn. "I suppose I could do with a few more hours. What about you?"

He gave me a look, and I desisted.

"I could eat something," I said.

"Mm," he said by way of reply. "I'll buzz you in when you get back."

I stared at him for a moment, and then made that tiny adjustment back to the reality of Sherlock and the gap in his understanding of social graces. Without another word, I grabbed my wallet, shrugged on my jacket and left the suite in search of food.

The moment I got down to the street, I found myself spoiled for choice. I ended up choosing at random, and found myself in a decent little deli that had a massive sandwich menu. I ended up having a pastrami sandwich made up for myself, and for good measure, ordered a roast beef sandwich for Sherlock as well. I also made a point of getting some coffees.

When I got back to the suite, I found that Sherlock had dressed and dried his hair. He accepted his sandwich and coffee with a grunt of thanks, which was the most I could expect out of him whenever he was preoccupied. He did, contradictory to his normally abstemious nature, do quite a number on the sandwich.

"You should go out for a walk, stretch your legs," I said quietly, taking a sip of my coffee. "It's warming up."

"Can't," he said, walking up to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and looking down. "I can't get distracted."

"From what?' I moved to stand beside him. "From her?"

He shot me a look, then chewed his lip and dropped down into the sofa. "You think my judgement isn't sound, because of Irene Adler."

"Don't take it personally," I said as I sat across from him. "You're only human, Sherlock."

"The woman has nothing to do with this, excepting her proximity."

"What if she gets between you and Moriarty?"

He watched me over his cup, a shrewd expression on his face. "Do you really want to know the answer to that?"

I considered him, considered the idea I had toyed with on our flight over, and knew I was the worst kind of hypocrite as I said, "We can't become laws unto ourselves."

He smiled in the corner of his mouth. "We?"

"You know what I mean."

He knocked back the rest of the coffee, and stood, shot his lapels and his cuffs. "Let's go out. Battery Park's not far."

I was halfway through taking my shoes off, but Sherlock, after his fashion, was already heading out the door.

The clouds had mostly burned off, and it looked as though it would be a fine day. There was the faint haze that came from the layer of pollution, but it had the effect of creating a kind of diffuse light that softened all the edges. Sherlock, completely oblivious to the magnificent view of the Statue of Liberty, was engrossed in the pop-art being peddled by a series of street merchants. He continued on to a brace of art students who were all sketching the famous monument. He paused at one, standing a respectful distance away. A young woman was working away at her easel, holding it down with one hand as she erased through a mass of pencil marks, forming the image in negative.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, and he spared her a small smile, then continued walking. Checking his phone for the time, he turned to me.

"Have you got any cash?"

I checked my pockets. "I've got five and some change."

"Excellent." He started off at a quick walk back in the direction of Bowling Green, and I almost tripped over my feet trying to catch up with him. We made our way down to the subway, purchased some tickets, and waited for the number 4 train, which showed up in good time. As we rattled along, Sherlock was taciturn, but I could see by the way his eyes moved over the other passengers that his mind was as active as ever.

"Where are we going?" I wondered out loud.

"5th Avenue." He sounded a little annoyed that I had broken his reverie.

"Yes, but why?"

"Doing a bit of shopping."

We were topside again in less than thirty minutes, emerging near Central Park. Sherlock turned down 72nd St on to Madison Avenue, leading me all the way to the door of Ralph Lauren, which was situated inside a massive Renaissance Revival-styled building.

As expected, the interior was very ornate. A distinguished looking middle aged woman dressed in black stood sentry by the door, and greeted us warmly enough, her eyes alighting on my companion. Sherlock, in his Saville Row suit, looked ten times more the part than I did, and I felt somewhat shabby in my old black coat and faded jeans.

"Good afternoon," the woman said in a voice modulated with something pseudo-English. "How may I help you?"

Sherlock, in his traditionally brusque manner, dispensed entirely with pleasantries. He sized me up briefly, and then said, "Suit, something gabardine, lighter colour, a size 40 regular."

Realising suddenly that my flatmate was dressing me, I opened my mouth to protest, but Sherlock was already following the woman down the hallway, and into a room that was reminiscent of an old study, excepting the rows of suits recessed into the walls. Wordlessly, she selected several different suits, but Sherlock immediately pointed at one that was a light grey with very subtle pinstripes.

He turned to me. "What do you think, John?"

I had to admit, he knew immediately what I would've chosen. "That one's fine. Shall I...?"

"Yes, go." He turned his back and went to investigate a different series of suits. The woman (her nametag read "Angela") led me off in the direction of the men's changing rooms.

"So, how long have you been together?" Angela asked, her voice dropping to a friendlier pitch and dispensing with the strange elocution.

"What?" I felt a familiar stab of annoyance. "No, we're just friends."

"Ah," she said, with a knowing smile. "And does your friend usually do your shopping for you?"

"He's a completely arrogant bastard," I said, feeling a little bit of vicious satisfaction. "But he does know clothes."

"Mmm," she said, giving me a cursory glance. "I think this will work quite well on you. Wait here, I'll get you a shirt and tie to go with that."

She returned shortly with a cream-coloured tie and a standard white dress shirt in my size. I dressed quickly, and examined myself in the mirror. It was a good fit, and had the effect of making me seem a little taller than I was. It also made me look like the kind of doctor who played golf on the weekends and made a six-figure salary. I stepped out into the hall, where Sherlock was waiting. He looked me over once, and nodded his approval.

Sherlock paid for the suit on the MasterCard Leverton had given him. I peeked over at the bill, and almost choked. The sum totalled near $2000, more than I'd ever spent on any kind of clothing. Small change in terms of suits, really, but still. Sherlock didn't bat an eye, but signed off on the receipt. He handed the suit bag to me, and we walked quickly out of the shop.

The next stop was Saks Fifth Avenue, which was a couple blocks away. Saks much more resembled the traditional department store, and Sherlock briefly consulted the floor guide. We stepped into the lift and he punched the button for floor 6. Once out on the floor, he immediately made a bee-line for the Gucci section. Bypassing the clerk, he swiped a long navy suit off the rack, then returned and set the credit card down on the clerk's desk.

"Are you sure you don't want to try that on first, honey?" the man asked with a grin, trying and failing to hide the fact that he was appraising his customer in a slightly lecherous way.

Sherlock grinned back, but his expression was injected with something that said if he didn't get his way very shortly, evisceration would commence. "I am entirely certain that I don't want to try it on."

The clerk seemed to sense his closeness to the precipice, and wisely proceeded without saying anything more, excepting a small "thank you, have a nice day."

Looking irritated, Sherlock led the way back down to the street, where he hailed a yellow taxi.

"I hate shopping for clothes," he confided.

I looked at him incredulously. "I find that hard to believe. Your wardrobe is worth more than a new car."

He shrugged. "It's more than I detest sales people. Bridget Sloane supplies me directly with my tailored suits through her Saville Row branch, at a major discount."

"Sloane," I'd heard the name before. "That was the designer..."

"Precisely."

More often than not, I noticed Sherlock preferred goods or favours in exchange for his services. Rarely did he take a large cash commission, and if the challenge was not sufficiently worthwhile, he'd turn away a potential client regardless of how much they offered to pay him. I often wondered, but had never asked, exactly how he managed to be so independently wealthy without a regular income, but if the Holmes estate was any indicator, money had never been a problem for him.

I admit, I'd felt a flash of resentment now and then, but always came back to reality when I remembered how difficult his formative childhood must have been, and even now, the challenges he faced as an adult made it painfully obvious that his brilliance was a burden as well as a gift. Truthfully, I wouldn't want to trade places with him for all the tea in China.

When we got back to the suite, he tossed the suit on to the couch and turned and went into his room without another word. I could feel the exhaustion beginning to creep up on me. I stashed the suit in the closet and then went into my room. I fell asleep almost the moment I finished undressing. 


	6. Pretty Boy

John Watson's Blog (locked)

April 19 - continued

I awoke with a start. Sherlock was sitting in the corner of my room, clearly waiting for me to wake up.

"Jesus!" I said, upon seeing him there. He chuckled and unfolded himself out of the shadowy corner. He was dressed, I noticed, in the Gucci suit he'd purchased. It was immaculate, hanging on his frame in just the perfect way as to emphasize the long lines of his body. He'd done something with his hair as well. It was tamer, softer, laying in waves and thick curls rather than the usual messy-but-hip mop. Overall, it gave him the effect of looking quite like he was about to trot down a fashion runway and smoulder for the camera.

"You look pretty," I remarked, sliding out of bed. I felt underdressed in only my boxers, but being in the army had long ago cured me of any shyness. "I suppose I should get dressed, then."

"Not yet." He crooked a finger." Come with me."

He turned towards the en suite and I followed, puzzled. With no mercy for my eyesight, he flipped on the bright vanity lights. I groaned and covered my eyes.

"Have a seat," he said. Still covering my eyes, I put the toilet lid down and perched on top of it. Sherlock shucked off his coat and hung it on the door hook, then turned to me. He'd pulled something from his pocket: a straight razor.

"Uh, Sherlock, I have razors, I can-"

"Yes, I've seen what you call shaving," he said with a sneer, and I had the sudden urge to punch him in his stupid face. I didn't get the opportunity as he soaked a face cloth in hot water and slapped it on to my face.

"Ow! Jesus, that's hot."

"Softens the bristles," he said by way of explanation, setting the wicked looking razor aside and pumping shaving foam into his hand. He took the cloth from me and lathered my face with foam. "Listen: you're a man of deep business, John, and you won't look the part if you've got great big gashes all over your face. No, shut up and hold still, I don't want to nick you."

I went quiet, and glared at him as he dragged the razor expertly over my skin. Admittedly, his manual dexterity was reassuring, and I wondered how often he'd done this. He lifted my chin with two fingers and quickly and carefully shaved my throat. I was starting to relax. I wouldn't have ordinarily trusted anyone to get that close to me with a potentially deadly weapon, but I trusted him. Strange to think, I'd hardly known him a year, and I trusted him more than I trusted any other living person.

He finished and tossed the wet cloth to me. I wiped my face off and glanced in the mirror. He'd had a point. My face was completely smooth and free of cuts, and it made me look a little more fresh-faced than I would have ordinarily.

Sherlock grinned, and plonked down some product on the counter. "Dab a little of this on. Your hair's short, you won't need much. Then get dressed. The car will be here soon."

I emerged from the room looking about ten degrees more posh than my normal average temperature. I had nothing on Sherlock in terms of physical beauty, of course, but I held my own. A pair of dress loafers were waiting for me by the couch, along with my shoulder holster and service weapon.

Sherlock was tapping a pack of cigarettes, which he slid into his inner pocket as the buzzer went off. He answered it, told the driver to wait, and we hastened down to the garage level.

A black Lincoln town car was waiting for us. We got in, Sherlock instructing the driver to drive to Georgette's.

The restaurant turned out to be quite the haute affair, situated on the top floor of an eighty-storey skyscraper. My pervading sense of being over-dressed vanished as we crossed the threshold. The restaurant itself was dimly lit inside with low hanging lamps, and the decor was simple, square and dark, accented here and there by a spray of orchids. Deprived of interior lighting, it was instead illuminated by the lights of the surrounding city, which flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Sherlock stopped at the host's podium and asked after Mr. Leverton. We were shown to a table set far in the corner, occupied by Leverton (very dashing in a black silk tuxedo) and a middle aged woman with a long figure swathed in a black satin sheath, and coiffed steel grey hair that was short cropped, but nonetheless artfully tinted and styled.

She did not rise, but fixed us with clear grey eyes. They flicked to Leverton.

"Odette, may I introduce my friends, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. Gentlemen, this is Odette Marchand."

"Charmed," she said, raising a sceptical eyebrow as she extended a hand to Sherlock, who bent over it in a display of old world chivalry that was perfectly affected. She ignored me, which was fine with me.

"Call me Sherlock," Sherlock purred, and I could see the woman's mouth softening.

She signalled to the maître d'. "Are you boys hungry?" I noticed there was a distinct Southern twang in her accent.

Sherlock shook his head. "I was rather hoping we could speak privately, Miss Marchand."

"Call me Odette," she said carelessly, but I could tell she was charmed. "Straight to business, I like that."

"Odette is one of the most successful entrepreneurs in the city," Leverton said, something quite discomforting about the smile branded on his face.

"Hush," she said, the sweetness in her voice a little bit nauseating. She picked up her handbag and we followed her out to the patio situated on the roof. The height was absolutely dizzying, and despite the low railing that ran along the circumference, I still felt shuddering horror as I imagined the long fall to the pavement below. A window-cleaner scaffold was anchored on steel cables, and I caught myself wondering what kind of insanity would compel someone to choose such an occupation that would require its use.

Odette seemed unfazed by the dramatic surroundings, but led us outside the boundaries of the dining area into a quiet little turning on the other side of a maintenance shed.

"What the hell do you want?" she asked, the sweet Southern belle veneer evaporating. "This is harassment, gentlemen, and I-"

Sherlock held up his hand, and she fell silent. He turned to Leverton.

"I wasn't lying. You rake in more graft than any other leech in the city," Leverton said, a thin smile playing around his mouth. "Isn't that right, Odette?"

"What do you want?" she demanded flatly, looking between Sherlock and Leverton. "I run an escort service, a completely legitimate operation."

"The Syndicate is her client," Leverton explained, cutting across her.

Sherlock considered the woman for a moment, then reached into his coat and tapped out a cigarette, offering it to her.

Warily, she accepted, and bent forward so he could light it for her. He lit one for himself, sucked in a lungful and then exhaled slowly. "I want names. All of your clients with connections to the Syndicate. Names, addresses, anything you can give me."

"Mr. Holmes," she said in a withering voice. "Surely you don't think my clients would be that imprudent."

"Fake names, then, I don't care," Sherlock continued. "If your business is, as you claim, legitimate, then there must be a ledger somewhere, a repository of information. And if it's not, you still have to keep track of your accounts somehow."

Something about his frank manner had prompted her to reciprocate it. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, and she flicked ash off the cigarette. "What's in it for me? Why should I help you? These are dangerous people you're talking about, and I get by on the understanding that I protect their privacy."

"Please," Sherlock snorted, all of his charm leaching away. "Do you know how easy it would be to put you down? All I'd have to do is announce through the right channels that you and I spoke, and you would disappear. We're not negotiating a hostage exchange, we're discussing the terms of your surrender."

She eyed him, bit her lip, then, seemingly having come to a decision, reached into her little handbag and pulled out a red Blackberry. She tossed the cigarette over the ledge and started to scroll through the phone, the white screen illuminating her face. "There's one client who's regular as clockwork. There's a particular girl he likes, but I don't think she'll talk to you."

Sherlock nodded towards the phone. "Get her number for me."

Odette nodded, and then started to thumb the keypad. Leverton and Sherlock both focused on her intently. Being entirely left out of the proceedings, I let my attention wander.

Suddenly, my heart jumped into my throat and started hammering. A pinpoint of red light from a sniper's laser sight danced along Sherlock's back and came to rest on the back of his head. Without thinking, I lunged at him, tackling him to the ground.

The bullet hit Odette Marchand square in the forehead. Blood sprayed out of the back of her head, patterning the wall of the shed behind her. Her mouth formed an "O" and her eyes went dim. She fell to her knees, the Blackberry jumping out of her hand. Even upside down, I could read the one word text-message she had just sent: "now."

Suddenly another bullet whizzed overhead and punched into the shed. Then another. I heard Leverton hiss in pain, dropping down into the gravel next to us.

"Are you okay?" I asked as another bullet travelled over us, this one lower.

"Yeah," Leverton grunted, holding his bicep. "It clipped me."

"We need to move, right now," Sherlock said quickly. "John, the phone."

I reached out and snatched up the fallen Blackberry. Then I felt myself being roughly seized by the arm. Sherlock, still hunched over, dragged me up on to my feet. Before I know what was happening, I had been dumped into the window cleaning scaffold. Lying on my back and looking up, I saw two more bullets pass above us, narrowly missing us. I looked at my companions, saw Sherlock bent low, one arm reaching up and feeling for the manual lever.

"Brace yourselves," he said calmly, and Leverton and I exchanged looks of absolute incredulity. Sherlock jerked the lever.

There was a floating sensation that lasted a few seconds, before gravity caught up with us. We plummeted. I could feel the sensation of terminal velocity deep in my stomach, just as I could feel the wind whipping by and see the lights turning into blurry vertical streaks as my eyes watered. The sound of traffic, horns blaring, and the other noises of the street were all becoming more audible, the ground magnifying at a terrifying speed.

Some ten floors away from impact, Sherlock jerked the lever, and the entire scaffold bucked, nearly throwing all of us out. It bounced against the side of the building and then came to rest, swaying gently. Both Leverton and myself were wrapped around the railings, clinging for dear life.

Sherlock, on the other hand, while looking very ruffled (the gravel and the wind had destroyed his suit and his hair was completely wind-crazed) was grinning. He too was panting, but his aspect was that of a kid who had just enjoyed a particularly thrilling amusement ride, rather than a person who had come inches from death by high velocity concrete impact.

He lifted the lever and released the brake, slowly lowering us the last hundred feet or so down to the pavement. I staggered out of the cart and immediately fell to my knees, resisting the urge to be violently sick. Forget sick, I felt like my heart was going to burst. Leverton too was in bad shape. He was flat on his back on the parking strip, and starting at Sherlock, agape with disbelief.

"You're insane," he panted, taking deep breaths. "Absolutely, and completely...insane."

Sherlock went over to me and grabbed my shoulders. He pressed his forehead against mine, a lunatic grin on his face. "John. Breathe. We just survived a nine-hundred-and-fifty-six-foot fall. Don't ruin the ride by having a coronary."

I shoved him away, and he let himself fall on his arse on the pavement, a snorting giggle escaping him.

"You need help, my friend," Leverton said, starting to recover himself. He sat up. "Serious medical help."

"I've got medical help," Sherlock said, jerking his head towards me, and then he giggled again, for all the world like he'd just taken a deep hit of nitrous oxide.

I'd gotten my breath up just enough to lean over and punch him hard in the shoulder.

"Ow!" he winced. "What?"

Before I could tell him exactly what, the sound of sirens began to echo off the towering buildings, and at the end of the row of buildings, blue and red lights flashed.

"Damn," Leverton said.

Suddenly there was a hard thump as another sniper round went into the grass just left of Leverton's head.

"Fuck!" he yelled, and threw himself up against a row of newspaper boxes. A round shredded through the back of one, and ripped right through the front page of the New York Times.

I saw the quivering red light track down towards Sherlock, who in a split second would have caught the bullet he'd escaped a few moments ago were it not for the NYPD squad car that had screeched around in front of him, one tyre jumping the curb, a sound of metal impacting metal as it took the bullet. The vehicle came to rest a foot away from my friend, the lights blazing.

A cadre of emergency vehicles surrounded us. EMTs were coming towards us with stretchers, and I heard Sherlock groan.

"Not this again."

Before they could reach him, he climbed to his feet, offering me a hand. I took it and he pulled me up, gripping my shoulder to steady me.

One of the medics was bent down next to Leverton, who was still holding his arm, blood streaming through his fingers.

"Sir-" the young man began, reaching towards him.

"No, I'll walk." Leverton struggled to his feet and clamped his hand tighter over his bicep. He made his way over to the ambulance, where an EMT was waiting with a roll of bandage in hand. Using a pair of first-aid scissors, she cut the sleeve of Leverton's tuxedo jacket away. The wound wasn't deep, but it was bleeding freely. She dabbed a little bit of peroxide into it, and then quickly wrapped a few lengths of bandage around it. She reached around to grab a shock blanket (this one canary yellow) but stopped at once from a very pointed look at her patient.

Sherlock had shaken off the medics who were attempting to examine him, and let go of me. I was able to stand on my own two feet, and together we made our way over to the ambulance.

We weren't alone. A man, black, broad with a shaved pate was ambling up to where Leverton was perched. The man smiled at him, but it didn't touch his eyes. He buried his hands in the pocket of his long coat. A uniformed officer was close behind him.

"So, Virgil Leverton," he said in a voice like a bass drum. "Would you care to offer an explanation?"

"Hello, Gabe," Leverton said dryly, then looked to us. "Friends, Captain Gabriel Rivera. Gabe, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Pleasure's all mine," Rivera said without offering his hand. He turned back to Leverton. "Take it from the top."

"Aren't you a little out of your jurisdiction, Captain?" Leverton said with a wry smile, but at the hard expression he received, he shrugged and resigned himself. "I don't know. We were having a smoke on the rooftop. Someone started shooting at us from the opposite building."

"Yes, we got that much," said the Captain disdainfully. "What I'm looking for here is a motive."

The uniformed officer, a short man of Latino descent, was extending an evidence bag towards his superior. "Dug that out of my squad car," he said, then shot a glance at Sherlock. "You're a lucky SOB, mister."

He grinned, and Sherlock grinned back. "That was some excellent driving, Officer. I'm in your debt."

"You bet your ass you are," said the officer, whose name badge read "Alvarez". He looked to his captain. "Sir, you should look at that. Looks familiar, if you follow me."

Rivera raised the bag to the light, and we saw the twisted hunk of copper clearly.

"Ah," the Captain said, and handed it over to Leverton, whose face became drawn.

".50 BMG," Sherlock said.

All of us were familiar with that calibre. I spared a glance at Leverton, whose face was as hard as granite.

"I need to know what you were really doing," Rivera said flatly. "Now."

Sherlock stepped in. "We're investigating certain high ranking members of the United Nations Syndicate, concurrent with the investigation my colleague and I were conducting in Britain. We've tracked them here."

"This isn't the first time you've dealt with this guy, then," Rivera said shrewdly. "You and your friend should go back home, because you're not going to catch him."

Sherlock took a step closer to the big man. He cocked his head, his expression intent. "Sir, with all due respect, I am the foremost criminal investigator on the face of this earth. It is not a question of whether I will catch him, but when."

Rivera looked as though he was about to laugh, but one glance at Leverton's face told him that the ex-detective had every confidence in my colleague. The Captain seemed to value his former employee's opinion, so he clamped down and turned back to Sherlock.

"I'm not saying I believe you. But if I'm going to sign off on this, I'm going to need your word it won't come back on the department. I can't give you personnel, it's too dangerous for them."

"Not a problem," Sherlock said quickly. "They'd just get in the way. I just need access. A warrant for the adjacent building."

Rivera chewed the inside of his mouth, then turned back to Leverton. "I can deputise you. Four days, that's all you get. Clean up this mess, and then get clear of the city. I can't promise the feds won't get involved."

"Fair enough," Leverton said equitably.

"I need a search warrant. Now," Sherlock said quickly. "I need to subpoena the CCTV footage from the building where he stationed himself."

"You're in luck," Rivera said, twitching his head at Alvarez, who was just returning from a quick jaunt inside the building from which we'd just fallen. He had a warrant folded in his hand, and he handed it to Sherlock. "Alvarez called it in before I even got here."

"Good work, officer," Sherlock said. "They could use a few more like you at Scotland Yard."

Officer Alvarez seemed to sense that this was high praise indeed, and grinned wide. "Thank you, sir."

"I need to examine the scene," Rivera said abruptly. "I'm giving you a lot of rein here, so don't screw me. Get moving."

Sherlock turned without another word. Leverton slid off the ledge on to his feet, and together we headed across the street, threading through gridlock traffic. The building was a little taller, ideally situated for a sniper. Sherlock glanced up at the face of it, then proceeded to punch the intercom button. There was hardly any need, however, as the security guard was hurrying towards us. Apparently he'd been watching the emergency vehicles assembling.

"Can I help you?" he said, pulling open the door and looking us over in our filthy high fashion apparel. "Are you with the police?"

Leverton held out the search warrant. "Yes. We need to have a look at your security tapes."

The guard held open the door for us and led us to his desk, where a series of screens were recessed under a ledge. "Something specific?"

"85th floor," Sherlock said without hesitation. "The one with the observation deck. From about a half an hour ago."

The man cued up the footage, and we waited with baited breath. Before long, the image showed a man walking down the hall, carrying a large attaché case.

"Freeze that," Sherlock said quickly. The image stopped, mid stride, and Sherlock nudged the security guard over to the side so he could get a clearer look.

The man looked distinctly ordinary, wearing a leather jacket and a black poor-boy cap. His face was impossible to see, and his hands were gloved in plain black leather. The case that he was carrying too was unremarkable, excepting its size. But it had to be our man. No one else had passed through the corridor at that time, and the balcony would be the ideal post.

There's something in his pocket," Sherlock said, and I could see a blurred piece of something yellow.

"Could be a Metro pass," Leverton said.

"No use at all to us if it is," Sherlock said in a clipped tone. "If we can't see the time stamp on it."

He sat back and reached for the keyboard (the security guard had wisely relinquished custody of it) and let the scene play out. Even when he was closest to the camera, the man took care to keep his head down. Then, out of the blue, I spotted something.

"Stop it there," I said. "No, back it up a few frames."

I had a clear view of the side pocket. The yellow piece of something was suddenly gone. The angle had changed as the man rounded a corner, and it was impossible to see whether or not it had fallen out. But Sherlock worked the keyboard until the live feed came back on the screen. There, on the carpet, was a crumpled yellow square.

"Brilliant, John," he said, and without wasting another moment, strode up to the elevator. Once we were inside, he pressed the button for the 85th floor. In no time at all, we were all of us doubled over and scrambling along the corridor until Sherlock spotted it on the carpet.

"Ah." Sherlock pulled the silk handkerchief out of his pocket and lifted the little square. It was a yellow condom wrapper, empty of its contents. He dipped his pinkie finger into it, and it came up shiny with lubricant. "Observe. Every criminal leaves something of himself at the scene of a crime, and every criminal takes something away. Even one as careful as this man."

"So..." Leverton began, hitting right on the obvious. "He got his freak on."

"Very recently," Sherlock said, cleaning off his hands with the handkerchief. "Within hours, I would estimate, of his attempting to assassinate us. Come along."

We followed him back into the elevator. Leverton turned to him. "What does that mean?"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. He looked at me. "John, the phone. Odette's Blackberry."

I fished it out of my pocket and handed it to him. He immediately began to scroll through it, eyes reading very quickly, and then he stopped. He smiled, then turned it around to show us.

The screen showed the calendar menu, today's date, with the following notation:

"Jade - 4:30pm."

Then he clicked away, coming up with the outgoing calls list. "Jade - 3:53pm."

"Your contact was obviously personally acquainted with our friend," Sherlock said to Leverton. "As you said, she supplies pleasurable company to the ranking Syndicate members."

"You think he's Odette's client and that Jade's his flavour?"

"Would you care to take those odds?" Sherlock pulled out his phone, and dialled the number. "Or shall I?"

"Oh, I want to hear this," Leverton said with an expectant grin.

Sherlock turned on the speaker phone. It rang out once, twice, and then a woman's voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello, I'm not sure if I have the right number." Sherlock affected a fruity, giggly voice that had the effect of raising the hair on my arms. "Is this Jade?"

"Uh, how can I help you?"

"Odette, you know, Odette from...well, of course you would. I'm sorry, I'm just off the boat and she told me that you had the key to the suite. She had to dash, but she left me this number and said you could get me a copy."

"The business suite? I've only got one key, but I can get you a copy tomorrow." There was suspicion in her voice. "What did you say your name was?"

"Johnny Baker. I'm actually in kind of a rush, got a client on the go. I can compensate you for the trouble, Jade."

There was silence on the other line, but it was heavy, contemplative silence.

"A thousand dollars," Sherlock added.

"What's the address?"

A half an hour later Sherlock and I had returned to the diplomatic suite. We had both changed out of our shredded apparel into more conventional fare, while Leverton had gone back to his apartment in order, he said, to medicate until he felt better about his near death experience.

The buzzer rang shortly after we got in. The woman who entered was not at all what I expected. She was diminutive, maybe 5"2, and swathed in a thick black hoodie. She wore no makeup, thick-framed glasses up the type popular with young hipsters, and a pair of faded jeans. She glanced between the two of us, and Sherlock stepped forward, an ingratiating smile on his face.

"You must be Johnny," she said, approaching him with a hand outstretched.

Sherlock gripped it for a moment. "Sherlock, actually."

Her brows knit and her body tensed, but before she could make a move, Sherlock had stepped into her, reached inside her hoodie and came up with a tiny silver derringer. She made to shove him back, but stopped when she felt the steel barrel pressing against her chest.

"What the fuck?" she demanded, in perfect colloquial New York.

"Yes, I am afraid I did lure you here under false pretences," Sherlock said amiably, taking a step back. "Please do have a seat, Jennifer."

"My name is Jade," said Jade, warily eyeing the pistol, not moving.

"It's awkward doing business with an alias," Sherlock said. "Sit down. We need your help."

She obeyed, dropping on to the sofa a few feet away from me, but didn't spare me a glance. She was much more concerned with the gun in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock sat down opposite her, and pocketed the derringer. "That's better. Now, Jennifer, I'm going to need your cooperation, and your assistance."

"How do you know my name?" she asked slowly, still visibly tense.

"Performers use a stage name," Sherlock said casually. "I'm sure you have others aside from the one you use when you do business, but as you've chosen a "J" name, and you yourself are aged around 30. "Jennifer" was the most common name for girls during the time of your birth, therefore most statistically probable."

I looked her over. I wouldn't put her at thirty; she was too doll-like in her appearance. But Sherlock seemed to catch my thought in midair. He gave me a smile out of the corner of his face, then nodded his head towards her glasses. "Presbyopia. Very early-onset, even for 30."

"I know who you're looking for," she said abruptly. "But I can't help you."

"Do you know how little effort it would take for me to reveal your connection to the Syndicate?"

Sherlock said, no menace in his voice, just cool fact. It had a deeper effect. 

"You don't have jack shit on me," Jennifer hissed jerkily. "I'll run so fast and so far away it'll be like I'll never existed."

"They'll find you. You may be careful, but they are meticulous."

She bit her lip. "I can't. He'll kill me."

"He'll kill you if you don't," Sherlock replied. "All it would take was a whisper in the dark."

She stared at him wordlessly, and stiffened as moved closer to her. Gently, he ran his knuckles along the underside of her pert little chin, a gesture that might have been sensuous from another man, but from him, carried more of an element of danger than if he'd had a knife to her throat.

"Don't," she said, but there was a note of futility in her voice.

"Do as I say, and you may live through this," he said with a small smile. Then he gripped her chin firmly in his hand and forced her to look up at him with her wide, spectacle-magnified eyes. "Play games, and I'll crush you. If all goes well, you'll never have to see him again."

He released her, and she sat back, still biting her lip. "Promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay."

"Tell me everything." 


	7. Breaking Stuff to Look Tough

John Watson's Blog (locked)

April 20

By the following morning, everything had been arranged. Sherlock had not allowed our guest to leave, but, with all appearance of chivalry, gave up his bed so that she might sleep there. I wasn't fooled, knowing it didn't make a damn bit of difference to him whether he slept in a bed, on the couch, or on the floor.

Personally, I thought he was right to be paranoid. I believed that if the woman had been allowed to leave, she would make good on her threat to disappear. I hoped that Sherlock's skilful manipulation had worked, though I also felt slightly uncomfortable about his method. He had always been able to seduce the people he needed, with no apparent ill effects on his psyche. But then, as he had said more than once, I felt guilty enough for the both of us.

Towards the early afternoon, after consulting briefly with her, he went out to do some shopping. Jennifer and I were left alone in the suite.

She had taken a shower, run a comb through her wet dark blond hair, and took up a position on the floor next to the window. She didn't look at me, but nursed a cigarette.

"It's going to be okay," I said quietly. "Sherlock just has a peculiar way of playing things."

She turned and looked at me. "Who the hell are you? His sidekick?"

That stung, but it wasn't entirely untrue. "I'm his friend."

She shrugged and turned away. "What's his deal, anyway? Why does he want this guy so bad? You're obviously not cops or you'd be dead already."

"He's tried," I said suddenly. "Your friend. He's killed people we were trying to save. He works for an organisation that Sherlock has been trying to take down for a long time."

"No, there's something more," she said shrewdly. "Something personal."

"It's a long story."

"We've got time, don't we, John?"

"It really isn't my place," I said, leaning back on the couch. "It's what he does. He has to solve things. He'd go mad if he didn't. He's a bit mad anyway."

Jennifer seemed to accept this, and continued smoking her cigarette in silence.

Sherlock returned at quarter past 2 with a garment bag from Versace, a bag from a makeup retailer, and one from a salon store. These he handed off to Jennifer, who went into the en suite bathroom without another word.

A half an hour passed before she emerged, completely transformed. Her dark blond hair had been tamed into thick waves that went down to her shoulders. The dress she wore was a light, olive green in a luxurious satin, strapless, form fitting, and devastating. Her hazel eyes, no longer hidden behind glasses, seemed to gleam under eyelids darkened with eggplant-coloured shadow.

She regarded us with a sleepy boredom as Sherlock looked her over, then nodded approvingly. "Serviceable."

He turned his back and pulled out his phone to order a car. Jennifer looked at me and mouthed the word "serviceable?"

I shrugged, and went to get my pistol.

At Jennifer's direction, we travelled up town and came to rest at a tall building with a series of private apartments. We entered through the underground car-park, turned our town car loose, and stood in front of the coded elevator.

"Do you remember your instructions?"

She nodded, took a deep breath, and punched in the elevator code, stepped in, and disappeared behind the sliding doors.

"What now?" I asked.

Sherlock smiled. "We wait."

Waiting entailed laying on our stomachs underneath a parked car, our clothes stained with motor oil, the smell of which pervaded our nostrils. From underneath the chassis, another car was visible as it came down the drive and turned into a "reserved" parking space. Sherlock shifted a little to the side, and both of us were able to get a clear view of the car, and its occupant.

It was a black sedan, a Lincoln town car, identical to the one that had conveyed us here. However, there was no passenger, only the driver. He put the car into park, unfolded himself from the front seat, and turned into the light.

I had my first full look at his face. The first thing that struck me was its almost complete lack of hair. Except his eyebrows, his skin was bare in such a way as to suggest it had been lasered off. It was impossible to tell if he had hair under his cap, but if he did, it must have been very closely cut.

His eyes were a grey so clear that they were almost colourless, and he appeared blind. His face, while pale, had an unremarkable handsomeness, with a very square bone structure. He adjusted the collar of his trench coat, turned and went into the elevator.

I got up and stretched, noting the oil stain down my front, and made a note to make Sherlock pay for dry cleaning. He himself had somehow managed to stay out of it, though his nice clean dress shirt was still grimy. He seemed utterly unconcerned about it, but made his way over to the car. He pulled out his mobile phone, and leaned against the bonnet, seemingly at ease in contrast to my nervous energy.

We waited perhaps ten minutes, but it felt like hours. Sherlock's mobile phone buzzed, and he hit the answer button, and put it on speaker. There came a hiss of breath.

"He just got into the shower," Jennifer said.

"You have the keys?"

"Yeah, got them out of his pocket."

"We need as much time as you can give us. "

"I can't promise more than a half hour."

"Ample time. "

"Okay, here goes."

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock held the speaker towards the car. It chirped and the lights flashed, making me jump about a foot in the air.

"Christ!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and turned back to the phone. "Go to work. We'll meet you in the car park after your friend leaves."

"Okay."

She hung up, and Sherlock stowed his phone in his pocket before turning towards the car.

The doors had unlocked themselves, and Sherlock pulled the passenger side door open. I stared at him,

slightly agape.

"I didn't really think that was going to work."

Sherlock leaned over and started to rummage in the glove box. "Sometimes it doesn't. The keyfob's sound signature has to be at the right pitch, and it has to be clean enough for the sensor to recognize it."

"Anything in there?"

"Nothing." Sherlock popped the boot, and got out of the car. Together we moved around the car, and

bent our heads over the compartment.

It was clean, empty except for a pair of metal attaché cases, and a zippered leather folder. Sherlock grabbed the folder, leaving me to examine the cases.

They didn't have locks on them, and I flipped open the first, not particularly surprised at its contents. It was a Barret M-82 sniper rifle, favoured by the IRA during the early 90s. Suggestive, as Sherlock would say. I quickly closed it and set it aside. I was about to start on the second case, when Sherlock went, "ha!" behind me. I turned to look at him, but he was engrossed in a small model sat-nav he'd discovered. He had popped the card out and was downloading it on to his mobile.

"You can leave the rest of it," he said, thumbing the keyboard. "This is all we need."

"Never hurts to be thorough," I said shortly, undoing the hasps on the other case. I opened it, and looked down into the silhouette of a large handgun and a suppressor cut into the black foam. I felt a sudden dropping sensation in my stomach.

"Sherlock…"

He was packing the sat-nav back into the folder, and zipping it up. "What?"

"Look."

He followed my gaze to the empty case, and his breath caught. "Damn."

Neither of us hesitated. I slapped the case shut and fastened it, taking care to put it back exactly where

I'd found it. Sherlock replaced the folder, and closed the boot. I dashed towards the elevator, but he remained behind just long enough to lock the car before shutting the door. He immediately went to the coded panel and punched in the code. The door didn't open, but a light above indicated that the lift was in use, and descending.

We looked at each other, both struck by another bolt of comprehension. Without another word, we flung ourselves behind one of the massive concrete support columns. Large though it was, it was hardly ideal for concealment.

Still, we were lucky in our angle. The shooter stepped out of the elevator, and gave a cursory look around to see if there were any onlookers. By chance, he missed us, and we were able to get a clear view of what he was doing.

I felt Sherlock's hot breath on my neck as he looked around me to see better, and we both watched as the assassin stripped off his gloves, pulled a silenced Desert Eagle out of his coat. He opened the boot of the car, grabbed the attaché case, and unscrewed the silencer from the pistol. He replaced them carefully, and then shut the lid. Without so much of as a backward glance, he got into the driver's seat, reversed, and drove up the ramp.

Sherlock immediately broke cover, dashing for the elevator. He keyed the code, and the doors slid open. I followed him, and he stared at the panel.

"Which floor?" I wondered out loud.

"Shut up," he hissed. "I'm trying to think."

I heard him muttering calculations under his breath, and then he punched the "60" button, the top floor. We began to ascend rapidly, but still not fast enough.

"How did you know?" I asked.

He leaned back against the wall, head tilted up. "The time it took for him to get from car park to shower, based on when Jennifer rang us."

"Do you think…?" I let the question hang there.

"You know what I think," he said grimly, and I sensed the cold hardening that came upon him whenever he anticipated tragedy.

When the doors opened, he bent down for a moment, then made a bee line for a corner suite. Again, I wanted to ask, but then I noticed the distinctive mark of a woman's stiletto heel indented in the thick carpeting. It hadn't been cushy enough to take the indent of the man's shoes, but a tamping effect was still noticeable.

Sherlock pounded on the door with his fist, but there was no reply. He looked at me, beckoning with one hand. We both back-pedalled, braced, and charged. Our combined weight and velocity was enough to send the door flying off its hinges, and we crashed into the room.

I stumbled, but Sherlock recovered himself. We were in a room, designed in lush velvets and stark modern furniture. Not Ikea knock-offs, but the real thing, expensive hardwoods and silk facing. In the centre was a bed, done up in cream satin, and draped across it was one of the most horrific things I ever hope to see.

Jennifer, alias Jade, was laid out diagonal across the sheets, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed. She was naked, except for a garter belt and lace stockings that until recently, had been white. Now they, along with the bedding, were swimming in crimson. Her expression was grotesque, eyes wide with surprise, mouth hanging open. There were two neat little holes in her, one punched through her forehead, and another in her heart. Her body was still twitching, mouth gaping like a fish out of water as the final embers of her life died out.

Instinctively I moved forward, but Sherlock threw an arm out to hold me back. He looked at me, his face tight. "Don't. She's gone."

"A sheet or something-"

"No."

"Sherlock!"

He ignored my indignation, shoving his mobile into my hand. "Call Leverton."

"Not the police?"

The look he gave me shut my mouth immediately. Turning from the gristly scene, I looked up Virgil Leverton in his contacts.

Sherlock moved forward and bent over the body, his expression loosening, turning more to unblinking, catlike fascination. The body of the woman he had blackmailed into assisting us had become a science experiment to him. I suppressed the desire to go over and shake him by the shoulders until he felt something, showed some sign of humanity, but I knew it would be useless. Instead, I dialled Leverton.

It rang twice before he picked up. "Sherlock?"

"It's John. Look, we need you."

"Define need."

"Right now."

"Address?"

I gave it to him, then handed the phone back to Sherlock. "Anything?"

"Nothing here," he said, waving a hand over the corpse. "Two shots, the heart first, then the head, for insurance. "

He left the bedside and went over to the opposite wall, where there were two bullet holes, each a half inch in diameter.

He took his mobile phone and turned on the flashlight function. The little flash bulb next to the camera lens lit up, and he aimed it into the holes.

I saw what it was that had interested him. "No bullets."

"No bullets," he confirmed. "Removed, probably with needle nosed pliers. He is excruciatingly careful." There was a note of appreciation in his voice.

Again I found myself in a position where a woman's corpse was lying next to me, and my friend and colleague was expressing admiration for her murderer. I glanced back at her, and felt the anger ebb through me.

"Do you think he caught her helping us?"

"Do you think we would've made it out of that parking garage alive if he had?" Sherlock took a step towards the bed, and crouched down on his haunches, looking into the girl's twisted face. "No. I think he was cleaning house. He knew he was compromised as soon as we connected him to Odette Marchand."

"Jesus," came a voice from behind us. Virgil Leverton, looking strangely softened in his white polo shirt and tailored khakis, rather too country club for a murder scene. He looked at us, one brow raised so high I thought it might disappear into his hair. "What did you do?"

"Not us," Sherlock said casually. "Our friend from the other night."

"And that, presumably, was Jade," said Leverton as he stepped over the threshold, very carefully not touching anything. "In the past we could've skated over reporting this on the "no one likes a dead hooker" clause, but times have changed. I'm going to have to call this in. You'll have to explain."

"Fair enough," Sherlock said, though I could tell he wasn't best pleased. "Can you call it in to your captain first? We can answer questions, but I don't want to be here for the crime scene technicians."

Leverton made the call, then flipped his phone shut. He glanced from the body to Sherlock, fixing him with a hard stare. "Did you set up this meeting?"

"Yes," Sherlock said bluntly. "We needed to get into his car."

Leverton turned to me. "Help me out here, doc."

"It's a trick for getting into a car with keyless entry," I explained. "Transmit the subsonic sound of the key fob and play it back next to the car, and it unlocks. It worked."

" Find anything?"

A smile crossed Sherlock's face. "Perhaps."

Leverton moved closer to the bed, and looked down at the distorted face, then turned back to us. "Was it worth it?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, glanced at me, his face going blank, the expression he usually wore when he was torn between honesty and decency. Wisely, he chose to remain silent.

We removed to the hallway, so we weren't surprised by Captain Ramirez as he ambled towards us, large enough to give off the illusion that he spanned the hallway.

"Virgil," he said by way of greeting, then looked to us. "Gentleman."

"Captain," Sherlock said. "Would you prefer I brief you now, or did you want to examine the scene?"

Ramirez turned and glanced into the stricken apartment, then turned back to Sherlock. "Brief me."

"The deceased was assisting us in pursuit of the same sniper who assaulted us last night. I believe he learned what she was about, and killed her."

He wasn't being quite on the level, but I knew better than to contradict him.

"Assisting you how, exactly?"

"One of Odette's," Virgil interjected, then looked to Sherlock, deferring to whatever story he had concocted.

"Information," Sherlock said in a clipped tone. "He was her regular client."

"Dead hooker," Captain Ramirez affirmed, and looked back at Leverton. "My favourite."

"Sir," I started, rankled by the insensitively, but Sherlock put a hand on my shoulder, and gave me a pointed look. I'd never been able to take comfort in gallows humour that ran in common between police and enlistees.

"Hard as hell to trace, most of them, fucks up the investigation." Ramirez jerked his chin in the direction of the body. "You got any dirt on her?"

"Her real name is Jennifer," Sherlock provided. "I can give you her phone number."

"Well, that's a start. Did you at least get anything out of this snafu?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Probably not."

"You'll let me know if something pans out."

"Of course."

The captain fixed a weighted stare on the three of us, then pulled out his phone. "Okay. Get lost, the three of you. I'm going to wait to subpoena you for statements, for your own safety. But you will make statements, after this is done."

"Yes, sir," Leverton said, while Sherlock and I nodded our assent.

We quit the scene with all haste, hailing a cab down on the street and high-tailing it away from the building. Several police cars and an ambulance passed us going the opposite direction as we sped downtown.

We returned to the diplomat suite and both of us showered off the grime in our respective washrooms, while Leverton called in an order of cold cuts. We gathered together in the sitting room, all of us seated on the floor. After the food arrived, I gorged myself, absolutely starved from the afternoon's exertions. Sherlock, as usual, abstained, and Leverton chewed thoughtfully on liverwurst sandwich.

On the floor between us was Sherlock's laptop, with his mobile plugged into it. He was scrolling through different sets of driving directions that had been stored on the shooter's sat-nav. He stopped, seemingly at random, at one location.

Leverton bent over to look. "Driftwood Marina, New Rochelle. Why there?"

Sherlock grinned at me, waiting for me to cotton on.

"A boat," I said uselessly. "You think a boat?"

"Ship," he corrected. "A very fine distinction."

"And the bastard who owes me a tux, you think he'll be there?" Leverton said, cracking open a bottle of water and taking a long drink.

"Possibly. If we don't find him there, there's a dozen other locations we can search."

"That'll only take a month," Leverton snorted.

Sherlock cocked his head. "You've waited how long?"

"Point taken," Leverton said thoughtfully." It's the closest thing to a lead we've ever had."

"Okay," I said, trying to lay out the facts in a way that I could understand. "We have a sat-nave route to a

marina, and you think there's a ship…why a ship?"

Sherlock just gave me one of his maddening grins, like a kid waiting for me to figure out his riddle. For a moment, I felt stumped, but then a sudden ray of understanding flooded my brain. "Oh."

"Oh?" Leverton repeated. "Why oh? What?"

"You think they're there," I said quickly. "You think….wait, Grand Cayman…"

"Dead, found in a burnt out schooner," Sherlock said softly. "Cayman authorities detain aircraft, all vessels, private and commercial. The parallel, the timing, and the position all suggest a single point of departure."

"You think Irene Adler and James Moriarty faked their deaths, set the harbour on fire, and then left on a ship."

"And sailed north. And anchored," he said, pointing at the map, a little way off shore. "Here."

I looked up at him, looked at his face, the hungry expression in his eyes. They were bright, glittering. He was high, high on a drug that superseded all others. He sat back, folded himself together, and propped his chin on his clasped hands, almost as though he was giving thanks.

"Sherlock," I said sharply. "We can't just go tearing in there without some kind of plan."

The dreamy look in his eyes cleared slightly. "Of course not." Then he turned to Leverton, suddenly all business. "Virgil. I have a delicate mission for you."

"Does it involve getting shot at?"

Sherlock sucked his teeth. "Not if we do it properly."

"I'm all ears."

An hour later found us gathered in a battered old station wagon, our cargo covered by a tarp. Sherlock and I had both elected to wear older clothes, as our endeavour was likely to be a messy one. He was in the tee-shirt he normally slept in, while I was in one of my undershirts. Leverton apparently didn't own anything cheap, and had elected to go in a form-fitting black tee-shirt. His eyes were hidden behind a massive span of aviator shades, and his hair tucked under a vaguely Soviet Army looking hat. Sherlock was wrapped in a black over sized hoodie, with the hood pulled up. I hadn't bothered with any attempt at concealment, excepting some sunglasses. I was already naturally nondescript.

When we arrived at the marina, Leverton went to go get our motorboat. He had found a seller on the internet, and had cash in hand.

I looked out at the shining Atlantic, which was dimming as night fell. "Do you really think they're not aboard?" I said with a glance at my friend.

He followed my gaze. "It seems most likely. I don't think either of them would deny themselves the luxuries of the city, and the timing is right."

Leverton returned, piloting a black motorboat alongside the dock. "Okay. Let's do this quick."

The three of us together unloaded the cargo from the back of the station wagon, and stowed it safely in the middle of the boat.

"You can drive," Leverton said to Sherlock, relinquishing the rudder. "You're so sure of where we're going."

Leverton and I both checked our pistols to make sure they were loaded. Sherlock was confident enough in his assessment that he hadn't bothered to arm himself.

The ride turned out to be shorter than I expected. At first, there was no vessel in sight, but as we sped towards the horizon, a sudden light appeared, perched on the bow of a massive yacht. It was obviously brand new, state-of-the –art, and beautiful in its curved architecture and stark lines. The whole thing was some two hundred feet in length, and the silhouettes of at least three men were visible on the main deck. They were, I noticed, cradling submachine guns. I felt even less confidence in Sherlock's expectation that we would get through this without any gunfire exchange, and hoped I wouldn't have to shoot anyone. It wasn't that I objected to killing them, so much as I wasn't looking forward to the paperwork.

The legend _Charon_ was emblazoned on the hull, and next to it was some kind of platform affixed at water level, with a set of stairs ascending to the main deck. There was no light on the platform, and the man who came out to greet us clearly through we were his employers.

"Back early," he said jovially, in something like a Russian accent. "Bad luck tonight, boss?"

"Bad luck for you," Sherlock said, and lunged for him. For an instant, I thought he was choking the man, who had dropped his weapon into the water, but then I saw the white cloth in Sherlock's hand, smoothing unfortunate lackey's face. The man gave a pathetic little kick, and then went still. To my amazement, the whole affair was virtually silent. Sherlock motioned to Leverton, who passed him a roll of cord.

"You're good at that," he said shrewdly.

"I've had some practise," Sherlock replied lightly, going about the task of binding the unconscious man to the stair railing. He might get a bit wet with the natural listing of the vessel, but at least he wouldn't drown. Sherlock tied a tight gag around his mouth, checked all the knots, and when he was satisfied, motioned us to follow.

"There's two more," he said in a whisper. "Stern and bow. Probably not more than that. The yacht is mostly automated."

We both nodded, and split off, Sherlock and Leverton heading towards the stern, and me towards the bow. The wind and the waves were loud enough the mask the sound of my approach, and I felt a little thrill as I stepped right into the man's shadow. He had just turned to glance over his shoulder when I raised my Browning and struck him a fierce blow across the back of the head. He dropped like a stone, collapsing on to the deck.

"Well done," Sherlock said from behind me, holding another length of rope. Together he and Leverton bound the man from head to foot, and gagged him. I could only assume the other guard had been treated in the same way.

Now came the grunt work. Sherlock took ten minutes to scout the ship, leaving Leverton and me to do the heavy lifting. By the time he'd found an ideal spot, we'd shifted most of the materiel on to the deck. Both of us were blowing and sweating, and it wasn't long until Sherlock was doing the same as we laboured on, conveying it to Sherlock's chosen location. Together, we heaved the last of our burden into place, tucked up in the engine room, just over the fuel tanks.

Sherlock picked up the red canister and doused the five bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer with diesel fuel. He dumped a bucket of steel ball-bearings on top of it, and paid out a long fuse, made of sparklers that had been tied together. For good measure, he'd also rigged a few sparkler bombs, a hundred in each bundle.

Satisfied, he turned and closed the heavy steel door almost all the way. In order to save any unnecessary bloodshed, we stowed the unfortunate guards in one of the lifeboats, and lowered it, cranking the engine and sending it off in the direction of land.

We returned to the engine room. Sherlock pulled out a lighter, slipped his hand through the crack and clicked it on over the fuse. It began to spark, moving rapidly enough to be seriously discomforting.

Sherlock slammed the door shut, latched it, and looked at both of us.

"Run," he advised. There was no hesitation. The three of us sprinted back to the ladder and scrambled down, jumping into the motorboat. Sherlock opened the throttle and we sped off, the boat arched upwards as we crested the waves. When we were about three hundred yards away, he slowed the boat, letting it rumble in the direction of the marina. We still had the yacht _Charon _very much in view as it suddenly broke in half. The explosion wasn't a massive, towering special effect, but was forceful enough that the resulting wave almost capsized us, and we clung to the gunnels, watching, completely awestruck at the destruction we had wrought. The ship seemed to buck as another explosion rocked it, this one smaller, but brighter. This time there were flames, a great towering fireball rising into the sky as the fuel tanks combusted, spitting fire across the deck.

The vessel took on water at an alarming rate, the bow heeling into the air. The entire thing took about ten minutes to sink, leaving behind it a cadre of floating debris, and massive oil slick that continued to burn bright on the surface of the water.

I looked at Sherlock, and was suddenly frightened by the manic grin on his face. I had never seen an expression like that on anyone, of unadulterated glee in the face of total chaos. I half expect him to start laughing psychotically, but he just grinned on, licked his lips, letting out a little sigh of pleasure.

"Time to go, Holmes," Leverton said quietly. "We don't want to be found here."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, handing over the tiller. "You drive. I want to savour this."

He had a point, I thought. Considering what Moriarty had nearly done to the pair of us, what he had done to so many others. It was a fitting revenge. Still, looking at Sherlock, I hoped he'd come down off it soon. We had more pressing concerns.

We scuttled the little motorboat and pushed the station wagon into the water. It was only a short walk to the Metro North train. In no time at all, we were gone from New Rochelle. Except for the flaming wreckage we'd left behind us, it was as though we had never set foot there at all.


	8. The Diva Queen of the Underworld

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 21

The rush of adrenaline coursing through me carried me as far as the diplomat suite, before failing me entirely. Leverton went home in a cab, after making us promise to keep him updated on our search. I didn't even have the energy for a shower.

"You look exhausted," John said, with a frown. "Like actually tired."

"I am completely bushed," I admitted. "I could do with some sleep, honestly."

"Me too," he said with a stretch and a yawn. "What's on the schedule for tomorrow?"

"Their move," I said, suppressing the urge to yawn myself. "Every action, etc."

"Right, well. I'm going to need sleep if I'm going to worry about that. Get some too, okay?"

I gave him a sleepy smile, and lifted myself off the sofa. Without another word, I turned, went into my room and fell face first on to the bed.

Yet, as is inexplicable with deep exhaustion, sleep was eluding me. Instead, I was replaying the evening in my head. Not only the glorious, magnificent application of high explosives, the beautiful symmetry of the thing, but my examination of the quarters and stateroom shared by my two adversaries.

Moriarty's taste was fairly predictable, hard lines, black leather, a lot of deep custom chairs with high backs. Irene, too, was visible in the décor, with lots of chaise lounges, white and black, with the occasional splash of colour here and there in the form of silk-faced cushions, climbing philodendron plants, and white calla lilies. All of the flowers were fresh and the plants were well cared for, suggesting that Moriarty was not above indulging her every whim. I wondered which of the lackeys had picked up the florist detail.

The wardrobe was even more evidence of his indulgence. The clothes she wore when she practiced law in London were fine, designer, and expensive, but this collection was haute couture, maybe two million pounds or more worth of clothing.

A deeper exploration into her boudoir showed that they had indeed decided to go on the town tonight. The cosmetics left out on the vanity had recently been used, the dark wine-coloured lipstick, the subtle purple-grey eye shadow. I continued on to the bedroom that split the separate walk-in closets. It was dominated by a king-sized bed, with a real white tiger skin draped across it. The effect was garish, more Jim than Irene. The red roses were a lovely accent on the white satin and velvet textures, but taken over all, they seemed like so many splashes of blood. The towering square window took up the entire side of the room, casting a ghostly light on the scene. Above, there was a crystal chandelier, done in smoky black Swarovski stones. Again, Moriarty. It was over the top for Irene. But stylistically they seemed to rub up against each other well, from all appearances.

Something white on the side table caught my eye. It was a card, narrow, with blue printing on it. I held it up to the light, and examined it more carefully. On one end, there was a playing card symbol. It was one half of a club. "1875" was printed on the other. The year, or perhaps an address. I flipped the card over. There was nothing.

I pocketed it, and said goodbye to all of the fine décor, then went above to finish what I had started.

Acquainting Jim Moriarty's obviously beloved boat with a pile of high explosives had been deeply satisfying. Exquisite. A memory to cherish. But now, I was faced with the prospect of his next move. It seemed a shame to just wait for him to come and get me. We could play this game of glorified hide and seek forever.

I didn't go to sleep. I sat up, pulled the card out of my pocket and flipped on the light. What did it mean? It had to be obvious, staring me in the face. Some kind of night club or casino. Was it meant to be stylishly abstract or was the establishment only quasi-legal, therefore requiring a subversive calling card?

I stood, and cast my gaze out at the city. It was early, not yet midnight. The city was lit up, glowing so brightly that no stars could be seen, the haze climbing into the sky. As I pondered, my eyes travelled over the towers and monuments. The Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges were especially spectacular, both of them monoliths of New World engineering. At the time of their construction, the British had still considered themselves more advanced, with a deeper heritage, but no one standing next to one of those mighty towers, hand on those hewn stones, could deny that America was destined to be a power in the world.

"Oh," I said to myself, experiencing sudden dropping sensation that came along with a moment of realization.

I picked up my mobile, scrolled through to the browser, and entered "Brooklyn Bridge" into the search query.

_The Brooklyn Bridge, built in 1875-_

I looked at the card, examined the half-club embossed at the bottom. I bent my head over the phone and amended my search to "The Brooklyn Bridge Club."

"Brooklyn Bridge Club, premier competitive bridge organization, comprising the Brooklyn Bridge League. League Nights, starting ten o'clock, cards, entertainment and bistro, 21 and over, invitation only."

There, on the entry, was the same logo that was emblazoned on the card in my hand. I looked at the address, memorised, and practically threw myself into the shower.

Twenty minutes later, I was groomed and dressed. I selected one of my more posh Saville Row suits and added a trilby hat to cover my distinctive curls, one of the many accoutrements lent to me by Virgil Leverton. I paused on the way out the door, wondering if I should wake John. There was a faint sound of snoring from behind his door.

No. He didn't need to take another risk on my behalf. He'd be safe here, out of harm's way. It would take C-4 charges to break down the steel mesh door, and he was armed. I slipped out without giving it any more thought. Once I was in the cab, trundling over the Brooklyn Bridge, I sent him a text: "out for a walk."

The Brooklyn Bridge Club was closed. It was, indeed, next to the bridge itself, and looked rather precious with its playing card motifs. But, around the back alley, there was a set of stairs that led down to the water's edge, where a floating patio was situated, tables and chairs flanking the entrance to the lower part of the building. It was lined with a thin blue neon strip, subtle, but obvious if you happened to be a person looking for a speak-easy.

There was a bouncer seated on a stool inside the doorway. "Invitation?"

I handed him the little card, which he accepted, and indicated I could pass. I did, losing myself in the crush of people. It was New York's glitterati, doused in a ghostly blue light that made everyone look a bit dead. There were pools of yellow light over roulette wheels and poker tables. No one appeared to be playing bridge, but they were shuffling towers of silver chips, and looking over their cards with the cold expressions of real professionals.

I continued on, threading through to the bar, which ran a semi-circle around a dining area, opposite a raised stage.

A four piece blues band played up stage next to a white grand piano currently standing empty. They were excellent musicians to a man, providing a little warmth in the otherwise chilly atmosphere.

I made a note of all the exits and entrances, assessing the depth of the stage's wings, and the corridor that led back to the restrooms, and beyond that, to the back alley.

I ordered a gin and tonic from the bar, and seated myself in one of the tables in the back, ideal for watching the comings and goings. There were a lot of beautifully dressed men and women, and it was challenging, trying to catch that familiar profile out of the throng.

My entire dilemma was suddenly solved as a woman mounted the stage and stepped into the spotlight. Dressed in a tightly tailored suit, she tapped the microphone, and smiled, looking somewhat like an androgynous puppet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. After many years, it is the Bridge Club's pleasure to welcome back an old friend. It took a lot of convincing, but tonight, my dear friend , or as we like to call her, the Diva Queen of the Underworld, has agreed to tread our humble boards for a few numbers. Please put your hands together for Miss Irene Adler." 

There was a wave of applause, but nothing like a standing ovation. Most of the patrons here probably didn't know her intimately, which was just as well for them, and probably safer.

Still, when she stepped up on to the stage, we were all riveted. My breath was caught in my throat, and I thought I might choke, but then found I didn't care.

It was her, Irene Adler, in the flesh, tall, long limbed, the colour of milk chocolate and twice as delicious. She was wearing a black dress of some seamless, shining material, something that was between vinyl and silk that I didn't have a name for. It was strapless, dangerously décolleté, looking as though it had been poured on. It hugged her ample curves with an effect that must was making every man in the room salivate, and every woman look on with cold envy.

She gave a broad grin, flashing every one of those white teeth. Her hair was pulled back, making her face completely visible. She wore no jewellery, excepting a pair of diamond studs, and a single diamond that hung about her throat. Epitome of class. Irene Adler.

"I didn't think I'd ever do this again," she said, purring into the microphone, sending a thrill up my spine. "So if I'm a little rusty, you've been warned. Gentlemen?"

She glanced over her shoulder at the band, all of whom had to snap out of their reverie. I couldn't blame them, as they were situated perfectly as to have an excellent view of that shapely arse.

They started to play, and Irene started to sing.

The sound that came out of her was throaty and soft, dark and liquid, pouring from her lips and crawling up my flesh. It was hair-raising loveliness, something between Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, and yet entirely , sensually, Irene Adler. Her song was slow, dark lullaby, and underneath, an inexorable current of seduction.

_Drink up baby, stay up all night  
>With the things you could do<br>You won't but you might  
>The potential you'll be that you'll never see<br>The promises you'll only make  
>Drink up with me now<br>And forget all about the pressure of days  
>Do what I say and I'll make you okay<br>And drive them away  
>The images stuck in your head<em>

She held the microphone, lips brushing against it, unbidden came the sensation of her lips brushing my ear. I twisted my glass, and took a deep drink, and as it was on an empty stomach, went straight to my head. Or maybe it was her, making me dizzy. They should have a breathalyser test for Irene Adler, I thought stupidly.

_The people you've been before  
>That you don't want around anymore<br>That push and shove and won't bend to your will  
>I'll keep them still<em>

That voice continued to slide across my skin, tightening around me like a boa constrictor. I was entirely her captive, hooked, addicted, lost. I couldn't take my eyes off her, not if the world was crashing down around me.

_Drink up baby, look at the stars  
>I'll kiss you again between the bars<br>Where I'm seeing you there with your hands in the air  
>Waiting to finally be caught<br>Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine  
>Keep you apart, deep in my heart<br>Separate from the rest, where I like you the best  
>And keep the things you forgot<em>

I was dimly aware of someone offering to get me another drink, but I ignored them. I was rapt. I watched her. Her eyes swept over the audience that had by now assembled to listen. Her eyes were hooded, surveying us like a queen surveys her subjects, the melancholy notes making circuits around me, causing me to shiver from head to foot.

_The people you've been before  
>That you don't want around anymore<br>That push and shove and won't bend to your will  
>I'll keep them still...<em>

She bent to riotous applause, affecting a modest smile that might look genuine to the uninitiated. They loved it. I loved it. I loved her. I couldn't stand it.

I shot out of my seat and plunged into the crowd, making my way through to the back alley.

"Christ," I said to no one in particular, drawing back into the shadow as I lit myself a fag, thanking the stars I'd remembered them. I'd never needed one more. Never had I felt closer to death than that moment, not when I was actually clinically dead, and now I was drowning in stupefying indifference to my own fate.

I had been stupid to come here. To think I wouldn't be affected. To imagine that I wouldn't feel glorious relief that she wasn't dead, or the burning hatred that she had done this to me. She had betrayed me. I'd all but begged her to do it. Stupid.

It might've been ten minutes or it might've been an hour, leaning against the brick wall, listening to strains of that low purr that drifted out into the night air.

_People that you've been before that you don't want around anymore, that push, shove, won't bend to your will… I'll keep them still…._

It stopped. I breathed again. I'd gone through half the pack. I was about to light another, when it was pulled out of my hand.

Irene Adler looked up at me with an amicable smile, more devastatingly lovely at this close proximity. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Irene. " I watched her as she lit the cigarette, and took in a lungful of smoke.

"It's terrible for my voice," she said, looking at the cigarette, and taking another drag. "I'm such a martyr for nicotine."

I took a deep breath, and turned my gaze away from her, as though I didn't care a whit that she was there."I remember."

"I didn't expect you to come here," she said conversationally, crossing her arms and leaning against the brick. "I didn't think you'd be that stupid. But then, you're apparently the last word on stupid."

That snapped me to attention. "Am I, now," I said in my iciest monotone, turning to stare at "Did you actually think you'd manage to kill me? Did you forget who you were dealing with?"

She shrugged. "This from the man who runs arms open towards certain destruction because he gets _bored_. That's pathetic, darling."

"Irene, you really should just...shut up." Without really knowing what I was doing, I put my hand on her neck and pressed my mouth against hers. Gently, she put a hand on my chest and pushed me away.

"Please, don't," she said softly. "We both know how that ends."

I stepped in close to her, leaning close as I whispered, "with you screaming. "

She grinned at me, and licked her teeth licentiously. "Better bring your best game, lover."

Her eyes flicked over to look behind me, and I was about to turn when hard, cold metal pressed against the back of my head. I looked back at her, and she grinned wider.

I glared at her."Bitch."

"Now, that's just rude," drawled a familiar voice behind me. "Where are your manners, Sherlock? Oh, I forgot, you don't have any."

I leaned away from Irene, towards the individual who had spoken. Jim Moriarty wandered over to me, hands in his pocket, looking as unassuming and ordinary as ever. Excepting his eyes, which were swimming with malicious delight.

"This is a bit awkward, isn't it," he said, addressing the gunman holding me hostage. I could hazard a guess at who it was. "Put that down, Seb. He's not running anywhere."

He continued his circuit, and went to stand next to Irene, one hand resting on the base of her neck. At first glance, the difference in their heights was slightly comical, as though Moriarty might need an oxygen tank to scale a woman of Irene's height, but on second glance, they wore each other quite well.

I turned to look at Seb, and was not surprised to discover he was the assassin who had been dogging our steps. He smiled, a quick strained expression that disappeared as quickly as it had come, like it caused him physical pain.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," I said brightly.

"You made me break my favourite toy," he replied in a monotone, absolutely neutral American accent, completely unidentifiable by region. I hazarded a guess that he was British.

"You can get a new one, Seb," Moriarty said patiently, thumbing the base of Irene's neck.

"I don't want a new one. I liked that one."

Irene cleared her throat. "Gentlemen, we're on a tight schedule." She looked to the assassin. "Get the car."

"Ma'am," he nodded his head, and handed her the silenced Desert Eagle. She didn't aim it at me, but held it loosely by her side as to not draw attraction.

Moriarty detached himself from her and paced up to me. "Concerning my yacht. You really didn't need to go to all that effort."

I grinned in spite of myself. "It was the least I could do."

He wasn't laughing. "But it's the thought that counts."

"Yes," I said, tapping out another cigarette. "I thought it would be appropriate to return the favour."

But before I could light it, a black Lincoln town car trundled down the narrow alley, lights off.

"Shall we?" Moriarty held the rear door open for me. I tossed town my lit cigarette in annoyance and ducked into the car. Irene took the front passenger's seat, and I found myself right next to Moriarty himself.

As we pulled out of the alley, he leaned idly against the arm rest, and looked at me with an expression that seemed to waver between appreciation and something less friendly.

"You're working with the police," he said matter-of-factly. "I didn't think New York's finest had that much plastic stashed away. Though, I have to admit, Americans have the biggest hard-on for blowing things up."

"Fertiliser," I said, looking out the window. Clearly, they didn't expect to keep me alive much longer, as they hadn't troubled to blindfold me. "And ball bearings."

"Hm. Very nice touch, Sherlock," Moriarty chuckled, tugging one lock of my hair. I looked around at him, eyes narrowed. "It's flattering to know I've influenced you so much, laddy-me-love."

"I'm glad you're taking it so well," I said off-handedly as I glanced into the rear view mirror. Irene was apparently ignoring me, and "Seb" was ignoring all of us.

"I was so impressed I almost considered not killing you," Moriarty continued. "Then I had an even better idea."

I stared at him. "Elaborate."

He clucked his tongue scornfully. "And spoil the surprise?"

"Why not just drop the games, Jim?" I said tiredly. "I'll figure it out sooner or later."

"I loved that boat, Sherlock. It was very high on my list of favourite possessions."

There came a noise from Irene, a little angry catlike rumble. She was actually pouting. I was completely thrown. If she was playing him, it was on a completely new set of scales than the ones she'd used on me.

"I said high, not highest." Moriarty said with a roll of his eyes and a sigh, but there was a current of pleasure under the derision.

I was watching Irene closely, but her attention had turned away again. Irene Adler, jealous of a material object? Didn't compute. What the hell was she about, playing the pet? It was not her style. Or maybe I was being stupid again. She had put one over on me, who was I to assume I knew her? And yet... and yet.

It was not a long drive. We remained in Brooklyn, and Seb had pulled into a car-park situated at the rear of a row of brownstones. I took note of the address, on the off chance I was able to get to a phone and call John, but it was looking more and more likely that I'd be dead long before I got an opportunity.

The four of us walked as orderly as you like up the stairs and into the front hall. An onlooker wouldn't have the faintest idea that something was amiss unless they happened to catch sight of the silenced Desert Eagle in Seb's hand, the muzzle lodged in my back. But it was too dark, and I wasn't that lucky.

"Sebastian," Moriarty said in a business like tone. "Take our guest upstairs and tie him up."

The man frowned. "You're not going to kill him now?"

Moriarty cocked his head, and looked at me. "Not yet. I made a promise to a girl. Which reminds me, I need to get a move on if I'm going to be on time."

"You're leaving me here to babysit?" Irene said with a pout.

"Yes," he said, and the playfulness in his voice drifted on the surface of something more sinister. "I know you'll make sure he behaves. Just…" he paused, and regarded me again. "Make sure he's in one piece. I want him to be able to fully appreciate the consequences of his actions."

"Yes, all right," Irene sighed, as if resigned to a chore. "But don't take too long, okay?"

Jim slipped a hand into her hair and kissed her full on the mouth, a very strange sight indeed. It was a tender kiss, full of affection, but the hand on her slender neck was tensed, even as his thumb ran along her throat.

"Better, princess?" he asked.

"Mm," she nodded. "Much. Go."

He turned to Sebastian, the affectionate aspect vanishing. "If he tries to escape, shoot him in the heart. I want him recognisable."

The assassin nodded. Moriarty turned, blew a kiss to all of us, and left, a smile on his face and a song in his heart.

"Well, I need a shower," said Irene, stretching luxuriously. Without another word, she ascended the stairs.

"So, Sebastian," I said jovially. He nudged me with the gun, directing me up the stairs and into a guest room-cum-office. This place had clearly been assembled in a hurry, as there was no real uniformity to the décor.

Keeping his weapon trained on me, the assassin withdrew from his pocket a set of heavy-duty zip ties. Working quickly, he bound my hands together, tightening the tie so it bit into my wrists. He did the same with my feet, and shoved me on to the floor. With two more ties, he bound me to the foot-board, threading them through the wrought iron bars. He took my mobile, checked it, and then pocketed it.

"Stay," he said, as though to a dog, then turned and left the room without another word.

I assessed my situation. I was zip-tied, facing out, to the footboard of the bed, with all of the motor sophistication of a beached salmon. I flailed, tried once or twice to move the bed, but it was heavy, and I was not ideally angled. I was having a hard time getting my feet under me, as they were bound together at the ankles.

Still, there was a possibility I'd be able to get out of this fix before they came back. This was a technique used by law enforcement in a pinch, not a conventional means of restraint, and I had an inkling that my friend the assassin might be rather more experienced with killing people than holding them prisoner.

I took a deep breath, knowing better than to tire myself out by thrashing around too much. First, I examined my surroundings. It was very bare, no bedding, no furniture, just the iron-barred bed stead. The desk and office chair shoved into the corner were unremarkable, but it was just possible that there might be something in one of the drawers that might be of some use.

My best bet would be to try and move the bed about a quarter turn. The floor was carpeted, which would make it more difficult, but muffle the sound of the scraping metal feet.

I arched my back, and inhaled deeply, and bracing against the bed, I was able to bend my legs under me. With a concerted effort, I pushed them out in front of me. Grasping the metal bars behind me with my tied hands, I was able to push myself up into a half standing position.

I considered for a moment that I might scrape the ties against the bars, and break through them, but that would take far too much time. There was only one thing for it.

I jerked my entire body in one direction, putting all my weight into shifting the bed, despite the ridiculously awkward positioning of my body in relation to it. If I had been able to stand up all the way, it would've been an easy job, but such as it was, I was only able to get a foot to the right.

I made several more jerking movements, each one more difficult than the last, my wrists now bleeding from where the ties had scraped up against my skin. I reflected on how weary I was of being forcibly restrained. Before long and after a great effort, I was close enough to the desk as to be able to open the top drawer with my teeth.

Nothing. I cursed under my breath, and went to the second drawer. There, a set of ordinary ball point pens. I grabbed one of them in my teeth, and twisting my neck and shoulders, I was able to drop it down on to the bare mattress. It took some shifting and twisting, but I was able to get it to slide within reach of my hands.

I didn't hesitate, but pulled the plastic cap off the pen, and inserted the little clip under the tiny ratchet on the first band. It took me a moment, as my hands were shaking from all the effort, and a little slippery with blood. But after a few attempts, I was able to get the rigid little piece of plastic to lift the catch. With a combination of shifting and tugging, I got the band wide enough open to let it slip off.

Feeling a little more solid now, I treated the other two in the same way, and in a trice, my hands were free.

I hastily undid the tie around my ankles, and stood up, rubbing the pins and needles out of my hands. I looked around the room for something heavy, any object that would be ideal for bludgeoning. There was nothing. Just as well. I could use my hands.

I crept out into the hallway. I could hear through a closed door, the sound of water running. Past that, both rooms were empty. I made my way back to the stairs, and saw with thrill that there was a light on in the kitchen.

The sound of the microwave covered the noise of my footsteps, and Sebastian the Assassin's head was turned away, watching the numbers tick down.

I tiptoed up to the breakfast bar, and lifted one of the stools.

"Hey, Seb."

He turned, expression surprised, his hand going for the gun on the counter, but it was just out of reach. I brained him with the stool. He dropped, but still held on to consciousness, struggling to get to the weapon. By the time I'd gotten around the bar, he had almost made it back to his feet, but succumbed after I bashed him another blow to the head.

I could not help but reflect that I was getting rather good at this as I dragged his sizable weight into the closet under the stairs. I took no chances, but twisted him up in a combination of power cords and duct tape, making sure to tape his mouth so that on the off chance he did regain consciousness, he wouldn't make a nuisance of himself.

I was about to go up stairs, when the silenced Eagle caught my eye. I seized it, and made my way back to the upper level.

The sound of rushing water had ceased, but there was still dripping, suggesting the faucet had just been turned off. I could just hear Irene padding around, the snap of a hair clip. Then the door opened.

I didn't press the elongated barrel against her skin, just laid it out in front of her. She was wrapped in a plush towel, her hair gathered in a claw clip, still quite wet. She looked at me, and heaved a sigh.

"Fuck."

"Let's go back in here," I suggested, indicating the steaming washroom.

"Why here?" she asked suspiciously.

I walked forward into her and she backpedalled. "Because I don't think you've got any weapons stashed away in here, and I'd like to have a proper chat with you, one where you don't try to shoot me, or drug me, or punch me, or generally attempt to inflict bodily harm on me."

She sat on the toilet seat, and watched me with the upmost resentment.

"What did you do with Moran?"

"Moran?"

"Sebastian Moran, James' puppy dog."

I smiled. "I put him to sleep."

"Seriously?"

"I knocked him out."

"How did you get loose?"

"Sheer bloody hard work," I perched on the edge of the tub, keeping the pistol levelled at her. "Now, let's clarify a few things. What the hell are you doing here with these people?"

She crossed her legs and adjusted the towel, which had been slipping down her slender frame. "Well, let's clarify this for a start: these are my people, Sherlock. James is my partner, not my boss."

I laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, I'm sure you believe that. Got everything under control, do you?"

"Funny thing," she said in a tone that was sweet enough to make my teeth hurt. "I thought you'd never fall for the thing with the cocaine. That was his idea, you know."

"And that charade with Caleb Marcel, and Geoffry Norton. That was all you, wasn't it?"

"You'll never know," she said, eyeing the gun in my hand.

I moved closer to her, and let the muzzle of the silencer just brush her chest. "It's my business to know."

Her eyes rolled up to look at me, full of insolence. "What are you going to do? Tie me up and leave me for the feds?"

Time for a bluff. "Might be safer just to shoot you."

She stood, and looked up at me with black eyes, full of hard-fired anger. Her mouth curled into a sneer. "I hope you have a damn good lawyer, Holmes."

I moved closer to her. "I could have a damn good lawyer right now."

She tilted her head back, and showed her teeth in a snarl. "I'd rather be shot, thanks."

The proximity of her, the steam that was still curling off her skin, and the warmth of her rage, so bitter I could almost taste it, intoxicated by her venom, all put me in danger of going right off my head again. And I found I didn't care.

"That's how you're going to end up, Irene," I said quietly, not a threat, a simple statement of fact. "You might not believe that, but deep down you know it's true. But I'm not going to be the one to shoot you."

"Given your current position, you really should," she growled. "There is no possible court of law that would convict me if you're the one making the arrest. A vigilante on the run from the law, you don't have a leg to stand on, and they've just about had it with you on your side of the water. Tell me, what exactly do you plan to do?"

"To be totally honest?"

She nodded.

I bent my head to hers, and brushed my lips against hers, ever so softly. "I have no idea."

She held stock still, then pulled back and looked at me with an expression of apprehension. "You wouldn't."

I licked my lips. "But I want to."

"At gun point?" her voice was starting to quiver with something close between rage and anguish.

"Yes," I said calmly.

Her mouth parted, and the expression of apprehension blossomed into real fear. I could see her body going rigid, about to bolt.

I seized her wrist, took the Desert Eagle and flipped it around, pressing the grip into her hand, and leaned into her, mouth inches from hers. "At gun point."

I sat back on my haunches and watched her. She aimed the gun at my heart, her face a mask of rage.

"Give me one good reason…"

"Irene, if you truly wanted me dead, would I still be here?"

"I-"

I rose, and she rose with me. "Moriarty once said to me that he would kill me, someday. That he was saving it up for something special. Are you that special something, Irene? Would I still be alive if you were?"

"Shut your mouth," she snarled.

"I think," I said conversationally. "That he cares more about the yacht I destroyed tonight. I see you playing the part for him, playing princess. Face it. You're an ornament."

"James Moriarty doesn't draw breath without my permission," she hissed. "He worships me."

I laughed quietly. "He worships nothing except power. He needs you now, but it won't be long until you're just another obstacle. Then he'll erase you from the face of the earth."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she said, but her voice had started to shake at the edges.

"He'll look at you," I said, moving closer. "And see just another corpse."

She cocked the hammer, and pressed the barrel harder into my chest. "Irrelevant. You die first."

"What are you waiting for?" I asked in a whisper. I could almost feel her heart pounding, and her nerves rattling. "The Irene that I know doesn't hesitate."

"You don't know me," she said, and her voice too had dropped to a whisper. Her hand was tight on the grip, finger poised on the trigger. "You fell for an obvious con, because you thought you knew me."

"Brilliant logic, except for one simple fact. You aren't going to shoot me."

"Oh, I'm not?"

We were inches apart, staring back into each other's eyes. Even within those dark irises, I could see her pupils were dilated. Like an addict's. I reached out, just the merest touch of my fingers to her skin, but it caused a sensation like a current of electricity, and I could feel the tension break in her. Her resolve disintegrated.

The gun clattered to the floor, and in an instant, her mouth was latched to mine in a backbreaking kiss, her whole body wrapping around me. I admit I hadn't quite expected the force of her assault, and had to catch myself, but quickly found I was outmatched.

She put her hands on my shoulders and shoved me backwards on to the floor, straddling me with those long legs. I tore the towel away from her body and pulled her down for another kiss, loosening the clip from her hair and tossing it aside so I could bury my hands in the wet tangles.

She pulled back with a dark smile, then leaned down to lace kisses across my throat my throat. Her teeth closed in the flesh just under my ear, and I hissed in a breath, then let out a little groan as she tongued the mark. Meanwhile, her deft hands made short work of unbuttoning my shirt, and did the same for my fly, freeing me from my trousers with a firm grip. I arched into her hand, gasping, my body reeling in the sensation as she stroked me, teasing me mercilessly.

Then I was inside her, swathed in warm, tight wetness. We laced our hands together and she bent back, setting a break-neck pace. She rode me at a gallop and it was all I could do to keep up, clawing at her waist, and leaning up halfway and bracing myself with one arm. The pleasure was so sharp it felt as though it was cutting through me, and I could feel my eyes watering, my heart fluttering.

In no time at all, she was crying out, her head thrown back, breasts heaving. Pent-up release shuddered through her and rippled into me in one unbroken wave. She sprawled across me, and I could feel her muscles shaking from the exertion. I bucked once, my spine bending in an involuntary reaction, and then collapsed backwards. She put her lips to mine, and we didn't kiss so much as breathe into each other, each feeling the pounding heart of the other vibrating through our skins.

She rolled off me on to the bathroom floor, still panting.

"I hate you," she said, echoing her sentiments of a few weeks before.

"I know," I replied, turning on to my stomach and stroking my fingers along her shoulder. "That's no bar to friendship."

She opened her mouth to contradict me, then stopped herself, and frowned. Wordlessly, with some effort, she hoisted herself to her feet and went over to the sink, turning the cold tap, cupping her hand under it and taking a long drink, holding on to the sink to steady herself. She turned it off and wiped her mouth, then turned around and slid back down on to the tile floor.

"I don't get you," she said, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes. "Why were you so certain I wouldn't shoot you? You knew the gun was loaded this time."

"Oh, I'm not entirely convinced you wouldn't," I said, also still panting, flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling with slightly blurred vision. "But I saw what you did to Marcel, and I heard about what you did to Norton. Not the actions of a woman who takes chances."

"By rights, you should be dead," she said with narrow eyes. "That coke was toxic enough to bring down a horse."

"But as you said." I rolled up into a sitting position, and propped myself against the wall next to her.

"That wasn't your idea. There's a marked difference between you and Moriarty in that he likes to play games, likes to allow just a little bit for the possibility of escape. Even if he does make these big sweeping attempts, he has a weakness for the game. He wants to keep playing."

"Sounds familiar," she said wryly, tilting her head to look at me.

"You would have shot me in the head," I continued. "Because you don't take chances. Which suggests that killing me wasn't ever that high on your list."

"And you think that means I like you?"

"Well, I'm not dead." I leaned in and kissed her lips, then kissed her forehead. "The question is, where do we go from here?"

"To the bedroom," she said decisively. "It's getting stuffy as hell in here."

I followed her into a master bedroom that was tastefully appointed, though about ten times more modest than the debacle aboard the _Charon_. No tiger skin, at least.

Irene had all but dispensed with grace, instead falling backwards on to the bed and sinking slightly into the covers, seizing a pillow and pulling it under her head.

"Open the window," she instructed. I glanced at her, then obeyed, going over to the bay windows and undoing the latch, letting in a stream of cool air and traffic noise.

I stripped off my clothes, perfectly unmindful of any possible onlookers, and draped them over a chair, where they would be dry in an hour or two. Then I got down on the bed on my hands and knees, and crawled over to her.

She wrapped her arms around me as I slid up against her. I let one hand slide down her thigh, and dug my nails into her flesh, squeezing just slightly. So much muscle in that thigh, enough that if she were to get my head between both of them, she could pop it off like a champagne cork.

Intriguing idea. I moved down the length of her body, bent my head to her and nuzzled into her inner thigh.

"Sherlock," she said, in a slightly weighted voice. I ran a hand along her stomach, and turned my head, letting my lips just touch her over that bundle of nerves, never taking my eyes off hers. She broke our gaze, letting her head fall back, one hand creeping into my hair and closing in it. Not tightly, but just enough to tell me quite clearly what she wanted.

I dipped my tongue into her slightly astringent saltiness, letting it slide across soft creases and folds, catching on all of those nerve endings, and causing little seismic vibrations to cascade through her.

"Sherlock," she said again, but this time it was on a breath, her body arching. I didn't break contact, and added a tender kiss, sucking on her enough to evoke an involuntary whimper. Then I used my teeth, and she jerked violently against me.

"Fuck!"

I seized her legs and yanked her body towards me, pulling her to me as I went up on my knees. I stared down at her, teasing against her with one finger.

"Would you like me to continue?"

"I want…" she was having trouble getting the words out.

"You want…" I grinned maliciously.

"Bastard."

"Getting warmer…"

I thought she might swat me, but quite apart from that, she leaned up, seized a handful of my hair, and dragged me forward. It hurt like hell, but the pain was second fiddle to the delicious feeling of being inside her again. Once I was there, she was content to relax a little bit, and I proceeded languidly, savouring the feeling of her inside and out, watching her in the dim shadow of the street light.

She made a slow circuit of my shoulder blades with one of those clever hands, the other buried in my hair. Not pulling now, but stroking, toying with the curls. Her legs circled around my waist. We watched each other, hypnotised, holding back, pressing forward, sliding against each other, letting the tension build.

Her fingernails cut into my back, and I knew that the friction was mounting in her. I didn't speed up, just kept up the torturously lax pace, laughing out loud at her frustration. The sensation broke over us in slow motion, in thick rolling waves, her breath coming out choked and shallow. I put my hand on her throat, applied just the slightest bit of pressure. She bent in the middle, violently, letting out a cry that was ragged at the edges, a sustained note of quiet scream that was dark and delicious. I locked my mouth to hers and devoured the sound, almost feeling it rush through me. Then it seized me, squeezed me and I came what felt like half my body weight, one hand gripping the pillow, the other closed around her wrist.

It rode us for what seemed forever. Less than a minute, but so intense that I thought I might surface from it with a hangover. I heaved a few breaths, and looked down at her, trying to find my voice.

"Told you you'd scream."

She slapped me across the face. She wasn't at an ideal angle, but I was willing to bet that there was a hand-sized red mark rising on my face. I rolled over and put my hand over my stinging cheek, wincing.

"Ow."

"You earned it." Her grin seemed to glow in the dark.

"Fair enough," I assented, massaging my face.

She leaned over and wet her lips, pressing them against the welt ever so softly, then whispered softly into my ear.

"Next time, you do the screaming."

We lay there in silence for a moment. The Irene peeled herself from the sheets and went over to the bed side table and opened the drawer. She came up with a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, and to my surprise, my mobile. She tossed it at me, and lit up a cigarette.

"You're going to need that."

I looked at the screen. Four missed, three from John, one from Virgil.

"Thanks," I said. I set it aside, and got out of bed, perching in the opposite corner of the bay windows. Irene handed the cigarette over to me.

"We need to get dressed."

"Throwing me out already?" I finished the cigarette and tossed it out the window into the now mostly-empty street.

"Sherlock," she said, and her voice was suddenly very grave. "James has your friend."

My attention was immediately arrested by this information, and I felt my hackles rise. "John?"

"No, the other one."

I frowned. "Virgil?"

"The girl."

Now I was completely lost. "Girl? What girl?"

She waved a vague hand. "The cute one. The pathologist."

"Molly," I said, not quite absorbing this information. "Molly Hooper?"

"Yes, that one."

I considered, and quite unexpectedly, felt my heart constrict. "His surprise. "

She nodded. "The special thing he's been saving up for."

I dialled John, set the phone on speaker and tossed it on to the bed, then started to get dressed.

It only rang once.

"Sherlock, what the hell-"

"John," I said quickly. "Get a pen."

To his credit, he didn't quibble. I looked at Irene.

"Where is it?"

"It's a warehouse, I'm not sure-"

"No, shut up, wait," I said, picking up my phone.

"Is that-?" John's voice.

"Wait," I snapped. He fell silent.

I clicked through to the information I'd downloaded from Moran's sat-nav.

"It's upriver. Yonkers. Shipping yard on the first left, number 79A. Meet me there. Bring Virgil."

"Okay, but Sherlock, can you please for the love of God, tell me what's going on?"

"Later. Bring your pistol. Tell Virgil to come armed, too."

Irene and I dressed without saying anything. She put on jeans and t-shirt, and I donned my still slightly damp shirt and trousers. We headed towards the exit, but I paused to grab the pistol out of the bathroom, unscrewing the noise suppressor and tossing it away; it would only draw more attention. I tucked the gun into the back of my trousers while Irene got the keys to the car. Together, we descended the stairs, ignoring the faint sounds coming from underneath them as Moran shifted around, trying to get free.

When we got down to the car, Irene went around to the driver's side door. She opened it and slid in, looking at me expectantly. I shrugged and got into the passenger's seat.


	9. Antrim Roulette

John Watson's Blog (locked)

April 22

"Does he usually do this?" Leverton was looking up at the sky as it began to lighten. He checked his watch. "Shack up with the enemy, I mean."

We were both huddled against the cold, leaning against Leverton's car, which we'd parked at the gated, razor-wired perimeter outside the shipping yard.

I shrugged. "Apparently. He sounded pretty dire on the phone."

The investigator took a puff off his cigar, and looked at me with knitted brows. "Did you consider that maybe this is a set up? That the bad guys have him, and forced him to call you?"

I hadn't considered this. "It's possible, but I don't think so. One, it's him they want, not me, and two, he's not the kind to just cave in like that."

"If you say so."

A black town car appeared from around a corner, and screeched to a halt in front of us. Irene Adler was at the wheel, Sherlock in the passenger seat. They both got out of the vehicle, and on first glance, Sherlock appeared to have been rather ill-used, his suit limp on his frame, and a number of abrasions on his wrists, not to mention the angry red marks on his neck and throat. On second glance, it became clear that those marks had probably been inflicted by the woman standing arm's length away from him.

They'd shagged again. Seeing them up against each other now, it was difficult to tell, because there was no aura of affection between them. As they approached us, it was clear that whatever was about to happen had temporarily circumvented their enmity or their affection or whatever it was between them.

"For a genius, you're a great stupid prat," I heard myself saying.

"You're probably right," he agreed offhandedly. "John, you remember Irene Adler."

"Vividly," I said, and she smiled at me, apparently genuinely flattered. I looked back to Sherlock. "Why are we here?"

"To finish this."

We all looked at him.

He turned to Irene. "What direction will they be coming from?"

She considered for a moment. "The water. James is paranoid about setting foot on land, unless he's got Moran close at hand."

"So he he'll have some muscle with him." Sherlock turned, and lit up a cigarette, sucking it almost half-way down in one inhalation. "And he's expecting you?"

"And Moran."

"Sorry, who's Moran?" I interrupted.

"The sniper," Sherlock said. I could almost feel Leverton stiffen, despite being a foot away from him. Sherlock fixed him with a grin. "Don't worry, Virgil. I gift-wrapped him for you. But I need your help here. Can I count on you?"

Leverton nodded and stubbed out his cigar. "Yes. I want to see this out."

"We need to start by getting over this fence," Irene said. "The entrances are being watched, I'm sure of it."

"Not a problem," Sherlock said, and held out his hand. "Keys."

Somewhat puzzled, Irene handed them over. Sherlock popped the boot, and inside, wrapped in some plastic trash bags, were a set of snow chains. He threaded the chains through each other, and then pulled them taut. Then he proceeded to shuck off his silk jacket, and began to bite through the threading at the seams. With a couple of jerks, he tore the arms right off the jacket. Discarding the rest of the destroyed garment, he took the arms and tied them up to either end of the chains. He leaned down and tied one end to the chassis, and hand me the other, which I tied to the fence.

"Stand back," he ordered. We needed no second bidding, and backed away as he jumped into the driver's seat.

Slowly, he accelerated, taking care not to rev the engine too loudly. The fence strained, tension making it rattle. I was doubtful as to whether Sherlock's jury-rigged towing method would work, but eventually the fence began to bend, finally caving in the middle far enough that we could make it over. Sherlock threw the car into park, then got out and immediately scampered over the protesting metal, followed quickly by the rest of us.

"Do you have a plan?" Leverton asked.

"More or less," Sherlock said, then reached back to grab the massive Desert Eagle I now noticed had been hanging out of the back of his trousers. He quickly checked to make sure a round was chambered, then put an arm around Irene's neck and pressed the gun against her temple.

"What the fuck, Sherlock!" she yelped, and immediately began to struggle.

Sherlock gave her a hard little jerk. "Needs must, darling. Try to relax. We need a hostage, or else we all die."

"Why do I have to be the hostage?" she said, holding his forearm with clawed hands.

"You have a bad record when it comes to pointing firearms at me," Sherlock replied glibly. She relaxed a little, but was obviously still spitting mad. "And we need to keep you on Moriarty's good side- that is to say, his better side. Come along."

We threaded through the stacked shipping containers, trying to remain in the shadow. Sherlock let go of Irene's neck, but kept a hand on her shoulder and the gun pointed at her, a few inches from the back of her head. I glanced at her, and she looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

We got close enough to catch a glimpse of a speed-boat moored at a small landing. It was empty. They had beaten us here. It was nearly impossible for us to know what part of the building they were in, and the entrances were limited to maybe three, not including the loading dock. I was very familiar with this kind of urban combat challenge. I got Sherlock's attention. He glanced at me.

"He's going to stay near the entrance they came through," I said. "If they need to get out, they'll go for the boat."

He nodded, deferring to me. "How should we approach?"

I considered. "I think we should split up. Come in from the sides. The two of you from the far side."

"We go in first," Sherlock said decisively. "I need his attention on me. It'll be like the last time, but in reverse. We have the element of surprise."

"How will you signal to us?" Leverton wanted to know.

"No one will be guarding the door on the river's side," Irene said in a low voice. "We'll be able to see you."

We made it to the edge of the building, prepared to separate. Sherlock called to me. "If you have to shoot, try not to kill him. Moriarty's my peace offering to Mycroft. Otherwise I may go straight to prison."

I was a little dismayed at this reminder, but I knew that it wouldn't be possible for me to kill him unless lead was flying both ways. And I didn't want it to come to that, not really. But a tiny piece of me hoped it might.

Leverton and I edged along the wall, and turned the corner, dodging around a fork lift and finally coming to the open door. I took a few steps forward and glanced inside. Moriarty was there, having a few words with his henchmen. On the floor next to them was what appeared to be a large black sack, but I couldn't get a clearer view.

The men were both burly and wearing black suits, seemingly very much the standard mould. One of them was slightly familiar. I was staring at his face, trying to place him, but he was wearing sunglasses despite being inside. Then, as he turned, I saw something shine in a shoulder holster. A chrome-plated Sig Sauer Elite. I'd seen that gun before, and now I was certain that I'd seen that man before.

It was Agent Brindt, my friendly neighbourhood shadow from Baker Street. He had just made some clever wisecrack, because Moriarty was chuckling a little. Suddenly, the black bag on the floor moved, just slightly.

I felt a prickling on the back of my neck. I didn't know what, or rather, who was in that bag, but a sudden feeling of dread was creeping up my spine. Without thinking, I made as if to step forward, but Leverton caught my shoulder.

"Hold up, friend," he whispered in an undertone. "Wait for Sherlock."

"But-"

Leverton put a hand to my mouth. Gently, not at all forceful, and there was understanding in his eyes.

"Wait for the right time."

I swallowed hard, and watched as Irene and Sherlock emerged from the far corner. Sherlock himself stayed back in the shadow. Now that I was beginning to grasp the situation fully, I felt a great flood of anger at my friend. He had no right to try and sideline me, to designate himself the cooler head. The bastard.

"You're late, pet," Moriarty said to Irene, then cocked his head, sensing something was amiss.

"I'm terribly sorry," Sherlock said, stepping out, the pistol resting on Irene's shoulder. "I couldn't think what to wear."

Oh, lovely. Clever banter. I had the sudden urge to just shoot the both of them. Leverton squeezed my shoulder.

"Sherlock," Moriarty said, the note of joviality missing. "How unexpected. I hope you know that if you hurt my darling, I'm going to have to give you your present in pieces."

He nudged the sack with his foot, and it curled in on itself.

"Let her out," Sherlock said, suddenly all business. The cleverness was done. He pressed the barrel of the gun into the back of Irene's head, hard enough to make her wince. "Now."

Moriarty arched a brow. "Playing rough, now? I didn't think you had the stomach for that kind of fun."

"James," Irene hissed.

"Shush," he held up a hand. "Daddy's taking care of it."

He motioned to Brindt (if that was even his name) who bent down and undid the cording, pulling the bag open. What had hitherto been apprehension bloomed into horror, making my vision go red.

Molly Hooper lay across the floor, her face and neck bruised in big swaths, hair tangled, eyes red and expression so far beyond all possible definitions of terror that it seemed almost resigned.

"So, here we are," said Moriarty cheerfully. "How to resolve this? I suppose we could trade, but then I'd just have you shot anyway. Or maybe I'll kill your big brother. Or your mother, on holiday in Vienna."

Sherlock's lip curled. "If you don't do exactly as I say, then you won't leave this room alive."

Molly, conscious, reached out for Moriarty's trouser leg, but he stepped out of her reach. "Quiet now, love. You just lie still. You look a little off-colour."

"Go to hell," she said, in a tiny whisper. He just smiled beatifically at her.

Then, improbably, her eyes flickered in my direction. Did she see us? I couldn't quite tell. But I could see now that the bruises on her face would exactly correspond to Moriarty's right hand, grasping her face. He hadn't just tortured her, he'd violated her. I thought back to the conversation we'd had, the promise I'd made her. I could see him in my mind's eye, quipping about "closure", laughing as he held her down. Everything in her eyes told me that. My body acted of its own accord, my arm rising, my pistol aimed at Moriarty's head.

Then, out of nowhere, "Agent Brindt" wandered into our door frame. Leverton dragged me against the outside wall, but the man just walked past us, stationing himself in front of the door way, facing inwards. The other lackey, I imagine, had gone to stand in front of the other doorway. No escape for the people inside.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the forklift we had passed. And as I turned to look at it my heart leapt. Some stroke of divine providence had caused the key to be left in the ignition block. I pricked my ears to try and get a sense of what was being said in the room, and was just able to catch Sherlock issuing an ultimatum: "I'll give you thirty seconds."

Now was the time to act. I sprinted for the forklift, Leverton in tow.

"John!" He hissed in an undertone. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Cover me," I said, and twisted the key. The engine came alive, rumbling underneath my seat. I put it in gear, and turned it around in a tight circle. The noise had attracted Brindt's attention, but by the time he reached for his weapon, it was too late. I aimed the forks at him and accelerated at full speed, mowing him down like so much grass. There was an awful crunching noise as the upper half of his body was crushed beneath the weight of the vehicle.

There was a moment of pristine shock as every person in the room stared at me. The remaining body guard recovered first. He opened fire in my direction, and I dove for cover on the other side of the fork lift, rounds zinging overhead and striking the corrugated metal wall behind me.

I caught a nasty glimpse of Brindt's distorted, destroyed face as I lay on the dusty concrete. I heard another set of shots go off, but this time it was from my side. I risked a glance, and saw the other man had dropped to his knees, a bullet hole having blossomed just above his left eye. He keeled over backwards.

From my point of view, I could see that Sherlock and Irene were sheltering on the other side of an industrial metal shelf packed with boxes. Crawling trench-style on my arms, I pulled myself to a better vantage point. Moriarty now had Molly in front of him, his hand tight around her throat. Her mouth was open, eyes streaming as she struggled for breath.

"Well," he drawled, and I tried surreptitiously to find a good angle at which to take him out, but he caught me, smiled and caressed Molly's cheek with a small snub-nosed revolver he'd produced from somewhere, while she visibly shook. "Ah, ah, naughty Johnny Boy. Behave. Though, I have to say, that was a new one on me. I didn't think you had it in you."

I stood, this time, and cupped the butt of my good old service pistol, taking aim at his head. "Think again, Jim."

"And…I don't know your name," Moriarty said offhandedly to Leverton, also tracking Leverton's weapon with his eyes.

"Virgil Leverton," said Leverton pleasantly. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Charmed," Moriarty purred. "I remember Sebastian telling me about you. The queer undercover cop."

I was suddenly struck by understanding as I glanced at Leverton, who grimaced. I felt like an idiot. Of course, that's why he'd been so keen on getting Moran.

Leverton glanced at me, and his face hardened as he turned it back towards Moriarty. "Queer I may be, but I'm not a cop. Here, queer. Wouldn't take odds on you getting used to it. Give it up, son, or you'll leave here on a gurney."

He flashed a winning grin at the ex-cop. "I don't think so, Virgil, but I will give you excellent odds on you ending up like your boyfriend, except I'm going to kill you personally." He then turned his attention back to Sherlock. "This is a sticky wicket, isn't it, old chap. Molly-girl gets to live if you let my bird go. Because I don't think you're going to shoot her, I really don't."

Sherlock gave Irene a little shake, evoking an angry noise from her. "You seriously overestimate my capacity for human compassion, Jim," he said, showing his teeth.

"Maybe I am, but there's an easy way to tell," he said with a shrug, then threw Molly against the wall and fired off a round that just missed her head. She screamed and curled up into a ball.

Aiming the gun at the top of her head, Moriarty turned, a loopy grin on his face, and spun the cylinder on his revolver. "Back home we have this game that we call Antrim Roulette. It's like Russian Roulette, except backwards, with only one chamber empty. How do you like those odds, Sherlock?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but squeezed off another round, again narrowly missing her. She screamed again, then turned into the wall, looking away as she sobbed.

"Stop," Sherlock said, and I could see he was visibly shaken. He shoved Irene away from him. She stumbled a few paces before catching herself, standing up straight and brushing herself off, then looked between Sherlock and Moriarty.

"Give her the gun," Moriarty ordered coldly. "Do it now. You two, drop them."

Watching Molly, who was watching me back out of hollow, red eyes, I felt my stomach lurch as I bent down to set the gun on the floor. Leverton did the same. All of us turned our eyes to Sherlock.

Sherlock, without hesitation, turned the Desert Eagle around, locking eyes with Irene as he offered it to her. She took it, and her eyes were locked on his as well, but whatever was passing between them was beneath detection. Both of them had mastered poker faces.

"Lovely," Moriarty said. "Now, just one more order of business."

He turned, cocked the hammer on his revolver and aimed it directly at Sherlock. But then something happened, something he did not anticipate. Molly had risen. Somewhere inside her, she found the strength to get to her feet. From a pile of scrap metal behind her, she took up a length of metal pipe, and raised it over her head, bringing it down on James Moriarty's skull with a vicious crack.

He crumpled and rolled on to his side, but even with blood streaming from the back of his head, and eyes roving wildly, he still managed to turn the pistol on her.

A second very unexpected thing happened. Irene Adler took a low stance, her arm tracking perfectly as she aimed the Desert Eagle, and jerked the trigger. With a metallic report of a bullet on metal, the gun popped out of Moriarty's hand and skittered away. He grasped his hand, which must has been stinging from the impact, and had just enough presence of mind left to give his former bed mate a truly thunderstruck look. Then he noticed the shadow of Molly, her faced twisted into an expression of pure hatred, eyes blazing, teeth bared, as she raised the pipe and took aim again.

Before any of us could act, Irene had stepped in. She seized the length of pipe and tossed it out of reach. Molly let out of a little scream of rage, and tried to reach for the prone form of Moriarty, hands curled into claws, as though she might tear his face off. Irene grabbed her by the arms and held her tight, pulling her away and on to the floor into a sitting position, using her whole body to restrain the smaller woman.

"Let it go," Irene murmured. "It's done now."

The frustrated, animal noise issuing from Molly's throat died down, turning into a kind of keening wail, and then finally small sobs. Irene loosened her grip and just held her while she alternately sobbed, and then gasped, as though she was having a slow motion panic attack. I immediately rushed forward, but Irene gave me a look that stopped me dead in my tracks. There was an understanding between these two women, and suddenly sensing what it might be, I realised that, as a man, there was no help I could offer.

Sherlock, too, seemed aware of the fact that we were peripheral to that moment. He looked to Leverton, who was already on his mobile.

Moriarty seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, blood staining the back of his neck. It was tempting, so very tempting to just roll him over on his front, and let his own weight smother him. Accident, nothing to be done. But looking at him, I knew that I couldn't let him happen. I could shoot him if he was shooting at me, but I couldn't just turn my back on my oath, not even for an enemy. Not even this enemy. It was a bitter realisation.

I seized him under the shoulders and dragged him over to the wall, propping him up. His pupils were differentiated. Definitely concussed and bleeding freely from the scalp where the blow had hit him. I ran my fingers over his scalp, and found a small fracture.

"He'll live," I said, not adding the _unfortunately_ that was waiting in the wings.

"You've got good hands, doc," Moriarty said suddenly, his speech slightly distorted, a hangdog smile crossing his face.

I bent right down close to him, until my face was inches from his, looking into those liquid black eyes. "Yes, I do. And if you ever come near that woman again, I'll strangle you with them."

He turned his head and looked at Irene, trying to find words. "You…you..."

Irene looked to me. "He can breathe through his nose okay, right?"

I glanced at him, and nodded, slightly puzzled.

Irene pulled herself away from Molly, who hunched over, cross legged, and held herself. Irene went over to one of the shelves and rummaged around, then came back with a roll of duct tape. She got down on her haunches in front of Moriarty, and tilted her head.

"James, honey. I'm sorry. I'm breaking up with you."

He stared at her with a dumb hurt that looked absolutely foreign on his face. "You bitc-"

The rest of the word was cut off as she broke off a length of tape and pasted it over his mouth. "Sorry. It was fun while it lasted, but you know me. I'm so_.._.changeable."

There was a muffled noise from under the tape that sounded like he was calling her more nasty names, by the time the sirens had descended on us, he had gone mercifully quiet, malevolent eyes staring vaguely off in the distance.

Molly and Moriarty were both removed my paramedics to separate ambulances. We were all of us gathered around next Molly's, while she received first aid treatment, and sedatives. Captain Rivera found us while we were giving our statements to the first responders.

"I had a call," he said, sidling up to us. "From a Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

He eyed Sherlock, who had been a number of feet away, nursing another cigarette. I made a mental note to get him to kick the habit when we got back to London. Though, if he ended up serving time, there'd be no chance of getting him back on the patch any time soon.

"What did he say?" I said.

"He said that he expects you back the day after tomorrow, and that Scotland Yard officials will be waiting for you on the ground to take custody."

"Take custody of whom?" Leverton asked, looking slightly amused.

"He wasn't specific," Rivera replied, a small smile on his face. "I put him in touch with the situation. Let him know about what was happening with your friend, here." He jerked his head towards Molly, who was now dozing on the cot.

Sherlock, who had finished his cigarette, rejoined us. "Did my brother say anything else?"

"Nothing," Rivera confirmed. "Oh, did you manage to find our sniper?"

"Yes. His name is Sebastian Moran, he's tied up under the stairs in a house in Brooklyn." Sherlock gave him the address, and considered another cigarette.

"Captain," Leverton said, and there was a hard and slightly desperate note in his voice.

Rivera fixed his eyes squarely on his former detective. "Keep it clean."

"Thank you, sir."

Rivera gave us a little wave, then turned his broad back and walked back to his unmarked sedan.

We rode together to the hospital, where Molly would spend the night, plied with strong anti anxiety medication. She underwent a thorough examination for evidence of rape and other physical trauma, which was duly logged for the NYPD, and faxed off to Scotland Yard.

All four of us, Sherlock, Leverton, Irene and myself, spent the day in the waiting room. At about three, word came down that Molly had asked for Irene. It was evident to me that it was she that Molly looked on as her liberator, and I felt more useless than I'd ever felt before. There seemed a developing trend of incredibly awful things that happened to the women I cared about, and the thought that it was my obvious oversight of the danger that brought about this turn of events was almost enough to unman me.

Leverton took a quick detour to Brooklyn before returning, showered and groomed. None of us asked, and he didn't offer to tell us, but the unspoken assumption was that the sniper Sebastian Moran was probably at the bottom of the Hudson River. Leverton, for his part, seemed a great deal more relaxed.

In another part of the hospital, James Moriarty was being treated for concussion. He was still unconscious, as far as we knew, and a heavy police guard had been set around his door. Sherlock, who had stepped outside for a cigarette, consulted his brother on the current situation. It appeared Moriarty would first be charged as a terrorist in Britain, because the information entered into the rolls there would create a useful precedent for the FBI to pursue a RICO case against him when he was returned to the New York to face charges for racketeering, money laundering, drug dealing, conspiracy, fraud, bribery, aggravated assault, battery, murder one and rape.

I personally felt it was deeply unfortunate that New York State did not have capital punishment, but Irene Adler kindly reassured me that Moriarty would eventually find his way into the federal courts, and that the number of murder one cases was strong enough for prosecutors to ask for an expedited death penalty.

Towards the evening, after enduring a four-hour long deposition, she approached me. "Let's go for a walk, John."

I glanced at Sherlock, who just nodded without raising his head from the text he was sending. As soon as we were out on the terrace, Irene lit up a fag, and offered me one, which I declined.

"How is she?" I asked at once. "Really?"

"She's hanging tough. She doesn't blame you, John, but you can't run in there with arms open, guns blazing. I know you want to be the hero, but she doesn't need a hero right now. Just quiet."

I nodded, accepting this. I knew it already, but for some reason it helped to hear it from her. Then something jerked at my memory. I looked at my one time enemy, head cocked.

"Why did you do it, Irene? Why betray Moriarty? He…well, I would've never believed it, but it seems like he honestly cared about you. Maybe even loved you."

"I think there were a lot of reasons," she said, considering her cigarette. "It wasn't entirely Sherlock, though he tried his best to make a convincing case."

"Did he now," I said with no little amount of irony.

"He did," she said softly. "I'm not…sure how I feel about it. I can't explain that, I'm not even going to try right now. I honestly wasn't sure that I wasn't going to sell you up the river until I saw what he'd done to her."

She stopped, looked at the ground, smoked, then looked back at me. Suddenly, I understood. She didn't need to say it.

She heaved a sigh. "James was- how do I explain it? He fit. He was fun. He enjoyed breaking rules for the sake of it, not just for the sake of greed. He's infinitely more dangerous than anyone who loved me...and he does love me. I found that comforting, I guess. I think I always knew what he was, but as long as he was mine…"

"And you were his."

"Yes."

"And what about Sherlock?"

She tilted her head back, stretching that long neck and letting it roll from side to side with a few audible cracks. Then she turned her head to look at me again. "Sherlock is the only man who has never tried to own me."

I nodded. "I can see that."

"I think maybe I shouldn't have interfered. Maybe I should have let her take him out," she said in a thoughtful voice. "Contrary to popular belief, sometimes revenge is the best revenge."

I had a feeling she was speaking from experience, but I didn't dare press the matter.

There was another thing that was nudging at me. "Are you coming back to London with us?"

"Yeah. I've got to make good on my promise to give evidence, or else they'll fry me. I gave everything I could in the deposition, but Lestrade wants me in front of a British jury. Either way, James Moriarty is going to spend the next ten years being shuttled from jurisdiction to jurisdiction until one of them finally burns him."

"He could escape," I said in an undertone. "Don't you think it would be safer to kill him and have done with it?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't peg you as being bloodthirsty, John."

"You should talk, Irene."

"Mmm. Well. I don't like his chances if he does manage to get out. He's not the only one with a network of spies. And you know, they don't like rapists in prison."

That was some cold comfort. I turned my face up to look into hers, could not help noticing how lovely it was, even without makeup, haggard from exhaustion.

"Irene…there's one more thing."

"Fire away."

"Did you kill those people in Soho? Marcel, and the driver?"

A small smile crossed her face. "It's possible. Why do you ask?"

"You've killed people," I said flatly. "I worry about that. I worry when my best friend is shagging a killer."

"I'm not going to lie, John. Yes, I've killed a few people. But I didn't waste them, if that makes sense. "

"And you're okay with that?"

She smiled again, tossed the cigarette off the terrace, then headed back towards the door. She paused, and turned to look at me.

"Yes, I am. Aren't you?"

She went inside, leaving me out in the cool air. I turned around and looked out on the scene below, a prosaic view of yellow taxis traversing the streets, people walking, talking on mobile phones, or talking with each other.

"Fair enough," I said to no one in particular.


	10. Soft Target

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 24

Virgil Leverton was kind enough to allow us use of the Pinkerton jet to convey us back to Britain. We made up a rather a motley crew, with Moriarty on a gurney, shuttered away aft of the partition, John, Virgil Leverton, Irene Adler, myself, and Molly, who was making it up very gently with my colleague.

He was not attempting to touch her, I noticed, and I also perceived that Irene was watching them closely. Leverton had a set of headphones on and was engrossed in a magazine, rather more chipper than I'd ever seen him. On impulse, I stood up, turned and walked into the back of the aircraft, sweeping aside the partition, and closing it behind me.

James Moriarty, strapped down with nylon bands, watched me with a malevolent gaze, unable to speak with the rubber ball gag lodged in his teeth. I reached over and unsnapped it, and he champed his teeth together a few times, no doubt quite sore in the jaw.

"Come to gloat, Sherlock?" he rasped. "The irony isn't lost on you, I'm sure."

The sing-song cheerfulness had gone, and I was faced with the core of the man, a flat nihilistic nothingness, accented by the rage that had never evolved past the age of 13, when his cousin Carl Powers had laughed at him, and paid for it with young life. His eyes glittered as he watched me.

"Tell me, Jim," I said softly. "Why didn't you just kill me when you had the chance? Are you really that enamoured of conflict that you'd risk your empire and your life by allowing me to pursue you?"

He licked his lips. "I did make a sincere attempt when I first sent Sebastian after you. But after I watched your brilliant escape…it would have been so anticlimactic to just off you that way. Where's the sport? Where's the fun? Where's the sense of gamesmanship?"

"You let your ego cloud your judgment again," I said, a little amused. "Trying to break me. Trying to make me dance."

"I will break you," he affirmed. "The Crown prosecution against me could easily take years...and after that? Do you really think they can keep me locked up?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But then, that's not my concern. I've caught you. You're not an appreciable threat, for the moment."

"After that moment," he said quietly. "You'll wish you'd killed me"

I walked up to him, and took the ball gag, forcing it between his teeth and latching it on the opposite side. He watched me with eyes that were pitiless, hungry, and empty all at once.

"You may be right, Jim," I said, patting his shoulder. "But as you said, where's the sport in that?"

As I left, I could feel the burn of his gaze in my back, and I wondered if I wouldn't pay dearly for my temperance in the future. Shelving the thought, I made my way forward, past the mini bar, and was surprised to find Molly leaning against the wall, waiting for me. She looked still looked quite woebegone, the bruises on her face and neck still livid.

"I'm sorry," she said in a slightly tremulous voice. Then she took a breath, her voice becoming slightly stronger. "I wanted to say thanks. For what you did. I mean, I wish you'd just shot him, but…no one's ever done anything like that for me before."

"It was my fault you were even there in the first place," I said in an undertone. "If I hadn't-"

She held up a hand. "You couldn't know. You tried. I'm just sorry that….well. I'm sorry about a lot of things. But you saved me, Sherlock."

"Irene saved you," I pointed out. "Irene and her brilliant aim."

"No, you did," she insisted. "You gave her the gun. You trusted her. If you hadn't done that, I'd be dead. We'd all be dead."

"It was…" I searched for the word, coming up blank. I suspected it was one of those times when the proper human response was over my head. I was at a loss.

With her small hand, Molly reached out and squeezed my shoulder. "I know."

She slipped past me into the lavatory, closing the door behind her. I stood stock still, momentarily paralysed by some emotional reaction I couldn't name. Then whatever it was passed. I went through the cabin and sat down in the seat across the fold-out table from where Irene sat. She gave me a ghost of a smile.

John was away in his own world, staring aimlessly out the window. Molly returned, and rejoined him on the sofa, leaning into him. He seemed surprised, but put his arms around her, held her for the remaining two hours of the flight.

Neither Irene nor I spoke. We didn't need to. There was an understanding now. I reached over the table and let my fingertips rest on the inside of her wrist, feeling the pulse there. It was steady and even, the same as her expression as she watched the early morning sun illuminate the buildings below us as London came closer into view.

When we landed at Heathrow, an entourage of policemen and suited agents were waiting for us, flashing police lights dancing over the wet tarmac. There was a police van parked with its doors open, waiting for its prisoner. Six heavily armed special ops men flanked it, all of them looking grim and soldierly. 

Mycroft was waiting with umbrella in hand, looking more or less recovered from the head injury I'd given him. He surveyed us coolly as we made our way down the stairs, then nodded to the spec ops, who proceeded to remove Moriarty from the aircraft, quickly conveying him into the van. None us of spoke as we watched them pile into the back, and close the doors. The engine started, and spirited our erstwhile adversary away to some high security containment centre, where he would await trial.

"So," Mycroft said as he looked at all of us, our gang of battered and bruised misfits, his face impassive and difficult to read. His eyes lighted on me, and became even more unreadable. "So, brother, what am I to do with you?"

I shrugged. "All's fair….?"

His eyes narrowed. "Eighteen months."

I felt Irene grip my arm, but I ignored her, looking into my brother's stony face. "Where?"

"Consider yourself in the employ of the British Government for the next eighteen months. You will be granted expenses, but no stipend, in recompense for the money you absconded with. You come when I call, you do what I say, and you do not complain. Is that clear?"

My heart sank. "Couldn't I serve time instead?"

"There's serving time and there's serving time," Mycroft said, tight lipped. "You'll be doing the latter. At a desk."

I wanted to argue, but a look from Irene silenced me. She turned her attention to Mycroft.

"Mr. Holmes," she said quickly. "I'm here of my own volition. I'd like to request my lawyer now, before I go to Scotland Yard."

"Madam, I am not arresting you," Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. "The evidence you have already provided has resulted the apprehension of several high profile criminals, and I expect will result in more. You will have to give evidence at trial, of course. However, given your past actions, I must impose a few limitations. You are not to leave the country, and you are to stay in custody."

"Whose custody?" she asked with a deep frown.

He jerked his head towards me. "His. I may be wrong, but I am fairly certain that the two of you deserve each other. As to the rest of you, you're all free to go, provided you appear for the hearings."

None of us argued. Having washed his hands of us, he turn and walked, umbrella swinging jauntily, to the car that was waiting for him on the edge of the perimeter.

I glanced at the group of bobbies who were loitering around, trying to look as though they were there for some important reason. Detective Inspector Lestrade disentangled himself from the group, making his way towards us.

"I can run you back to the Yard."

"Well, that's my cue to get going," said Virgil. "Not one for long goodbyes."

I turned to him. "Thank you for your help."

He offered me his hand, along with a cock-eyed smile. "We square?"

I shook it firmly. "We are."

"Good." He looked around at the rest of us. "Well, kids, it's been a laugh riot. Stay in touch."

With that, he turned and went back into the Gulfstream, the hatch closing behind him. We looked at each other, and then followed Lestrade to his car.

"I trust my brother has loosened his grip on your operations," I said as I got into the front passenger's seat.

"He has," Lestrade said as he started the engine. "He briefed me. He even apologised."

"How thoughtful of him."

"It was. He's got better manners than you."

I shrugged. "He's a better liar than I am."

"Touché."

We spent a very tedious afternoon giving deposition after deposition to the Yard, to MI6, to representatives from INTERPOL, members of the Irish Department of Defence, and by the end of the day, we were the lot of us exhausted and numb from the tiresome repetition.

"Shall I take you back to Baker Street?" Lestrade offered, as he passed coffees all around.

"Please," John said, almost as I simultaneously said, "No."

"What?" John said, looking at me.

"I think," I said, looking at Irene, "that we should adjourn to your home in Belgravia. We have a lot to discuss."

"You really are not going to let me out of your sight, are you?" she asked, a hint of laughter under her annoyance.

"That and shagging in a single bed is a bit awkward, isn't it, Sherlock?" John said dryly. "As mine will be occupied."

Lestrade almost snorted coffee. He took a breath, and when he'd recovered himself, he looked at me with an eyebrow cocked. "Shagging aside, I remember what happened last time we left Irene in your custody. Can you guarantee it's not going to happen again?"

I looked at her, then back at Lestrade. "No. But it doesn't matter. I have orders from on high, and given the liberties I've taken…."

"You, following orders," Lestrade said with a chuckle. "Doesn't bear thinking about."

When we parted ways, Molly elected to go to Baker Street with John. It was probably wise; even caged, Moriarty still had resources. He wanted all of us dead, but he'd kill her first. Even as traumatised as she was, it would be foolish to think that he couldn't do worse to her given half a chance.

We might have ended one war, but we had undoubtedly started another. It was an unspoken understanding between John and myself that we owed it to our companions. They'd saved all of our lives, after all.

Molly and John waited with us for our cab.

"You'll be all right?" I asked.

"Yeah," John said, glancing over at Molly, who was a few yards away talking to Lestrade. "I think it's better if there aren't so many people…I don't really know, to be honest. I know how to stitch up wounds, prescribe medication, but this…"

"Don't try too hard," Irene advised. "Practical things help more than comfort."

"Like?"

She glanced around to make sure no one else was in ear shot, the said abruptly, "teach her how to kill people."

This stopped him cold. He stared at her. Then at me. Our cab chose this most excellent time to arrive. Irene got in without another word, but I hesitated.

"You think she's right," John said in an accusatory voice.

"John, I appreciate that you're trying to be noble, but that ship sank on the way home," I said quickly. "You know she already has it in her. You saw it. I'm not the person to teach her, and neither is Irene. You're the best person for the job."

"I can teach her to defend herself, but-"

I looked over to her, and she raised a hand in farewell and gave me a wan smile. I looked back at John. "No. That would do her a tremendous injustice, and it wouldn't make her any safer. Teach her how to do the thing properly. Teach her not to hesitate. James Moriarty won't. He'll torture her to death."

John's face hardened into stone, and I could see a current of the cold warrior underneath. He nodded gravely, and then his expression lightened. "Look, take care of yourself, okay? Really, this time."

"I'll see you tomorrow. Tell Mrs. Hudson….well, tell her something suitable. And apologise for me."

"I do that constantly anyway," he said drolly. "Get going."

I gripped his arm as he gripped mine. He gave me his slightly sad, mildly disapproving smile, then turned and walked back to Molly.

I got into the cab next to Irene, and shut the door. We remained silent until we arrived at her house in Belgravia, not particularly wanting to discuss matters in front of the cabbie, and neither of us interested in reliving the past.

The bullet holes were still in her front windows, but other than that, it appeared to have been untouched. She produced a key from a cunning recess in the siding.

"Still obvious," I said.

"Shut up," she said pleasantly, opening the door.

She removed her shoes, and I followed suit, both of us leaving our luggage in the hall.

"I feel like I have years of dirt on me," she said, and started to ascend the stairs. I hovered in the hallway, a little thrown now that I was here with permission.

"What, now you're shy?" she mocked.

"Not remotely," I said, following her up the stairs.

"Just a shower," she warned. "I'm exhausted. So are you."

"Mmm," I hummed, stripping off my clothes as I trailed her into her spacious and well appointed bathroom.

"Second thought," she turned the tap on over the large Jacuzzi tub. "I want to get off my feet."

The tub was easily big enough for the two of us, and absolutely divine in application, the jets blasting against our weary muscles at full force. It was a strange experience, soaping her body, washing her long black hair. I had never washed another person's hair, and the only person who washed mine was my barber. I found it to be pleasurable, especially for a task I normally considered to be utterly mundane.

When were both clean and mostly dry, Irene led me to her bedroom. I'd been here before, of course, but not with an invitation, and it cast the entire space in a different light. I admittedly did feel a little tremor in my stomach when she let the towel drop, revealing those outrageous curves, that toned, slender core. All that strength, tied up in such a lovely lithe frame.

She noticed my scrutiny, and apart from giving me a shove, she smiled, reached out and took my hand.

"How are you at making love, Sherlock?"

"Pardon?" I said, a bit annoyed. "I would thought you'd had already formed an opinion."

"I know you're good at fucking," she said frankly. "You're excellent at fucking, actually. But making love, that's something different."

"We're not in love."

"That's debatable."

"Is it?"

"I'm not going to debate it tonight," she continued, leading me to her bed. She sank down on to it and looked up at me, just a little coquettish. "I was just curious. Because I'm really not in the mood to fuck."

"It's just another colloquialism for sex."

"You really don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

I shook my head. She got up on her knees and pulled me down for a kiss. It was a soft kiss, a little wet, her tongue just flickering gently into my mouth. I tried to follow her lead, felt a sudden rise of insecurity making my face go hot. It was easier, so much easier when she was spitting venom at me. It was the fire, the rage that I could feed on. But she was completely calm, and I was unnerved.

I pulled away from her, and said honestly, "I really don't."

She took my wrists, put my hands at her waist, and pulled me close. "I'll teach you."

It was an education that lasted most of the night. Physically, it was not altogether dissimilar to what she distinguished as "fucking", but as time wore on, I began to understand that distinction. It was a connection that transcended thought, flipped the off switch in my mind, and drew my focus entirely to her. My deepest self had never been particularly concerned with anything but my work, but Irene Adler, for the moment, had my complete and undivided attention.

It was by no means a one-way transaction. She was laid open for me, too. Not in the way she had been before, a construct, a book of information, the object of my big-game hunt. She was all of those things, but something else, too. In the heat of rough, nihilistic sex, she had protected the part of herself that she was now letting me see. It was vulnerability. It was trust.

It was strange. I'd stopped trusting women the moment mother had left me at boarding school and promised to return the next day, but never did. I'd shagged a few people of both sexes at university, but as Irene had said, and it was completely true, I had never made love to someone. Now that I had, I was experiencing something new. It was nothingness. It was sensation. It was peaceful, the absolute death of thought.

Afterwards, we slept. We slept for hours into the morning, made love in the afternoon, made plans to meet John and Molly at Simpson's in the evening, then went right back to bed with no intention of rising again until it was absolutely necessary.

Finally, something that had been nagging at me surfaced, and I touched her shoulder to wake her out of her reverie. "Irene."

"Hm?"

"The men in Soho. Caleb Marcel and Geoffrey Norton. Did you kill them?"

"Of course," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought you knew that."

"Because you were working for Moriarty."

"No," she replied evenly. "Caleb arranged the meeting. He was going to kill me for leaving him. I anticipated him, and acted accordingly to protect myself and my interests. I enlisted James' help for that. Things just...escalated."

"And Sinclair?"

She heaved a sigh. "Do you really want to know?"

"I really do."

"I ran away from home. Ran away upstate to Palisades. Then I called home, said I was scared, that I wanted to come home. Sinclair came to pick me up."

"How did you do it?"

"It was late, and the park was deserted. Sinclair thought he'd punish me for worrying my mother. I had a knife, just a little pocket knife. Once he was on top of me, I cut him across the femoral artery. He bled out in about two minutes."

"How did you dispose of the body?"

"God, Sherlock…"

"I want to know how you got away with it," I said quietly. "At sixteen, you got away with murder of a person in your own household, which is highly improbable, even for an intelligent person. How is it you weren't caught?"

"I saw a TV movie about gangs in South America escaping detection by removing the head and the hands of the victims to conceal their identities. It took some effort, but I was able to get Sinclair's body into the trunk. Then I drove to Home Depot and bought a hack saw."

"Remarkable," I said. "The report said they never found him."

"They might have found his remains, but never ID'd him," she pointed out. "And he had priors, but that was before DNA sampling was wide spread. I was lucky."

"You never told Moriarty about that, did you? About being raped by your step father."

Slowly, sucking her lower lip into her mouth, she shook her head. "I couldn't believe it when you'd found out. Even with only hearsay and circumstantial evidence, your knowledge of it was very dangerous to me."

"That's why didn't warn me about the cocaine."

She raised her head from my shoulder and looked at me. "I was afraid."

It wasn't an apology. Just fact.

"Are you afraid now?" I asked, brushing her hair out of her face.

"A little," she admitted. "But it's healthy, to have a little fear. It keeps you from getting too comfortable, keeps you from being a soft target."

"You might be right."

"We should get dressed. We're going to be late meeting them."

"They can wait a little longer."

A long, serene silence stretched through the next few minutes, but she looked up at me again.

"Sherlock, have you ever killed anyone?"

"I have been incidental in the deaths of a few people."

"That's not what I asked."

"Then no. No, I have never killed anybody in cold blood, with my own hands."

"Not yet," she said, her tone bittersweet.

"Not yet," I affirmed.

She kissed me swiftly, then rolled out of bed and started to get dressed. "Come on. We're late."

Without bothering to see if I was following her, she went down stairs to call a cab. Naked, alone in her room, I felt a strange sense of otherness. I shook it off, got up and began to search for my clothes. I found myself at odds with a missing sock, and lifted the thick pillows to see if it had somehow made its way under one of them. It was there, lodged between the mattress and the headboard, but something else, something shiny, caught my eye.

It was the little snub-nosed Bulldog revolver I had threatened her when I'd burgled her house a few weeks ago.

I wondered at her, keeping a gun under her pillow. Only an idiot would put it there for safe keeping; she must have a reason for keeping it close at hand, and that reason could only be that she made a habit of never entirely trusting her lovers.

I reflected the identity of her last companion, and the one before him, and couldn't fault her. I popped open the cylinder and saw that it was loaded. Smiling, I gave the cylinder a little spin, popped it back in and put it back under the pillow.

I dressed and followed her down the stairs, hoping that she would remember my advice and keep it loaded this time.


End file.
